24 Hours Isn’t Enough: The Impossible Math of Motherhood

Time used to feel abstract — something floating around me, something I knew was passing but couldn’t quite grasp. But since becoming a mom, time has become tangible. I can see it in the way my daughter grows a little more every day. Her hair gets longer. Her curiosity gets bigger. Her laugh gets louder. Her personality becomes more and more clear, with each passing day. She is living proof that time is always moving, even when I feel stuck in place.

And yet, for something that rules our entire lives, time is also impossibly hard to manage.

We all get the same 24 hours. In those 24 hours, we’re supposed to sleep 5–7 of them. We work another 7–8. And whatever is left over? Oh, lets not forget the importance of being in office and having to commute.

Mothers are expected to have enough time to take care of themselves, pour into their kids, nurture relationships, keep the house running, and show up for everyone who needs us.

It’s math that never math’s.

Motherhood adds another layer of expectation, a layer that feels heavier the older I get. As a woman, I’m somehow supposed to be strong but soft. Independent but still submissive. Easy-going but never passive. A leader but not “too much.” A mom who works like she doesn’t have a child, and a mom who mothers like she doesn’t have a job.

Honestly? It’s a roller coaster no one really prepares you for.

What makes it even harder is that sometimes the harshest judgment comes from other women. And it’s strange, because no one understands the pressure of motherhood more than mothers. Yet somehow the debates never end — breastfeeding vs formula, stay-at-home vs working, daycare vs home, “the right” way to raise a child.

But at the end of the day, fed babies are happy babies. Supported moms are happy moms. And not everyone has the luxury to choose what their motherhood looks like. Some women have to work. Some women don’t have family nearby. Some women want to stay home and can’t. Some do stay home and get judged for that too.

There’s no winning.

One of the hardest parts of being a working mom is watching someone else experience the moments you wish you could have. I would rather be on the floor in my daughter’s room, going over the alphabet, building block towers, teaching her to put a sentence together.

Instead, I’m sitting at a desk, repeating instructions to adults who should already know better; thinking about the time I’m losing that I’ll never get back.

Motherhood has changed my tolerance level. It was already low before, my friends can confirm, but now it’s nearly nonexistent. Because every minute I waste on nonsense is a minute I could be spending doing something meaningful with my daughter.

Time is too precious now. I feel it. I see it. And I’m learning to protect it — fiercely.