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“I will never be a stay-at-home mom. Hang out at parks and shop at Michael’s for craft supplies? I’d literally rather die.”

That was me, not that long ago. I was way too cool to conceive a life outside of my super-cool job at “the world’s largest commercial real estate company, according to 2012 revenue” (they always made us give that last caveat). We were the top every year, of course, because we were the best. And I took great pride in that. I had no idea how much at the time. The park? Yeah. Right. Only if you meant a high-rise on Park Avenue or maybe a luxurious office park in a fancy Chicago suburb.

And then I discovered that having a baby changes you. Everyone says it, but I’ll say it again. You’re never the same after growing, carrying, and birthing your flesh and blood. It changes a father, too, but not in the way it changes a mother. You’re stripped down in every way to your barest self when your offspring leaves your body and breathes air in the frightening world. A hospital room or birth center or bath tub or car or whatever nondescript setting instantly becomes the most magical and luminous and honest and significant place you have ever been in your life. Because you have a life to protect. You just pushed it out of you and it’s yours. Even if you aren’t overcome with emotion on the birthing table, the table itself means change.

When my husband, Doug, and I first decided to have a baby, our plan was for me to work. I loved working and we needed my income, so it wasn’t really a question. We put together a hodgepodge roadmap for childcare, a combination of grandparents, a nanny, and perhaps a day per week working from home, if I could swing it.

But then, about midway through my pregnancy, Doug got a major raise; the kind that knocks your whole household budget over because it’s that much more than you were making before. I might mention now that my husband’s a handsome genius. The boost was certainly big enough to mean one massive truth: I didn’t have to work.

I’d still work! Of course I’d still work. I felt like one of the fortunate few in the world who was paid to do what I love. I was a senior business development writer on a national marketing team. I had my master’s degree in professional writing from USC. Writing wasn’t like work for me. I truly love, love, loved what I did. Plus, writing was the one thing I knew I could do and I knew I could do it decently well. Literally, the one thing. Sports, not so much. Music, I tried. Baton twirling, an interesting phase.

I also aspired to be among today’s women who—wait for it—do it all. It’s an unspoken standard of measure right now. If you don’t have your own thriving company, popular blog, prodigy kids, enviable marriage, perfect dog, sculpted bod, Paleo cookbook, exquisite DIY everything, constant opulent travel plans, and at least 500 likes per Instagram post, you’re clearly just falling so short. Get it together, woman! And why aren’t you cloth diapering and home-making baby food in all your spare time?! Really, I’m disappointed.

Surely, I would do it all and do it well. I might not have my own company and my DIY skills were suspect, but I’d thrive in my awesome job and have the coolest kids ever and run a few half-marathons every year and we’d go on great trips all the time. With 500 likes per post. Obvi.

But as baby got closer, then came the breakdown, a startling notion: you can’t be in two places at once. What?! I felt the most interesting sensation. As my baby grew inside me, so did my mommy instinct. Work was still just as important (so far), but my baby girl was taking over not only my womb, but my heart. I literally wanted to be a full-time, thriving career woman and full-time, thriving mother.

But, again, you can’t be in two places at once. Someone else might witness the first laugh or the first roll or the first step while I was on a conference call. Conversely, someone else might win the big pitch or fly to New York or earn the promotion while I was at the pediatrician. The inevitable change in my life was becoming clearer. Something would always have to give, because you can’t be in two places at once. I’m still sort of shocked and disappointed by it.

I do know women—powerful women whom I cherish and love and respect—who have struck an astonishing and noteworthy balance of family and career. But the truth is, not one of them is truly doing it “all,” at least not alone. There’s help and chaos and compromise. Day care and husbands with flexible schedules and pumping breast milk in airports and logging back in late at night. They succeed and it’s truly amazing, but I believe genuinely that the illusion of “doing it all” is a dangerous lie. It’s a slippery slope toward constant comparison and deep-rooted envy and eventual, empty burnout. The world needs women executives and change-makers and political figures. But the world also needs to acknowledge that caring for a family simultaneously takes great care, effort, often a small army, and sometimes acrobatic feats in strategic scheduling. It’s really, really, really hard work. It’s just hard to see the seams of exhaustion and planning against the sheen of cute heels and legitimate business. Or maybe it’s just hard for me.

I also find it sad that we mothers divide ourselves harshly by camp—the working and the stay-at-home—armed heavily with defensive comments and insults that stem at least in part from a curiosity and longing for a bit of the other side. And both sides share in the blame; “What does she do all day?” and “How can she leave her babies?” are equally condescending. Yes, our day-to-days may look drastically different. But aren’t we all women? Didn’t we all register for nipple cream and dream up a nursery and get butterflies when we felt the first kick and weep when we heard the first cry? And aren’t we all mothers? Aren’t we all just trying to keep everyone nourished and happy and alive? I don’t think we’re really that different. We all kiss our babies goodnight. And we’d all give our own life for theirs.

After weighing every last pro and con at my personal crossroads, with multiple lists, emotional and practical, I decided to quit my job and become a full-time mother. The amount of money I’d bring home after paying for what childcare we’d need—plus money for gas and my insatiable need for pencil skirts—just didn’t make sense to me in the deepest parts of my heart, knowing that I had the choice. And the choice was all mine; my husband made that abundantly clear with heap-loads of patience as I navigated my options through surprising tears and repetitive conversations. But eventually, I hung up my fancy pants and traded them in for some Lululemon. Because, no matter the call, I tell you, a girl needs to love her pants.

Among the most moving and human moments of my whole transition period thus far were the responses I received to my good-bye email at my former employer. Responses from mothers, who just like me, had their worlds rocked when their babies were born. Women I idolized, but whom I unfairly assumed would have turned up their noses to my shame of a choice. The love poured in and brought tears to my eyes. “I’m so proud of you.” “I applaud your decision.” “I’m so excited for you.” “You made the right choice.” “I plan to do the same as soon as we can.” “You’ll never regret it.”

And all that brings me to right now. Typing furiously, doing what I love in this moment, in an entirely new context with an entirely new sense of self. New passion, new normal, new life-changing love for my daughter. It’s beautiful and confusing and fulfilling and lonely and exciting and boring all at the same time.

I will always write because for me, to write is to live. And someday, I hope to make money at it again. But I made a completely conscious decision equating to corporate career suicide. A gap in my resume, a sacrifice I feel in my stomach. The best kind of hurt. Even more, I no longer know exactly who I am. I don’t have the identity granted to me by a secure job at a Fortune 500 company. My role isn’t stamped on a business card and it doesn’t earn a lot of respect. I don’t have the promise of upward mobility or vacation days or, let’s be honest, sanity. But I do have the profound privilege of spending every waking minute with my baby, Emerson Violet. I will lead her and I will shape her and I will inspire her, teach her to be curious and humble and kind. To help people and to love Jesus and to chase her dreams with wild abandon. To live up to the meaning of her name, “brave and powerful,” in every step of her intricate journey from infant to woman.

Some days are still hard for me right now, but I’m more at peace than I’ve ever been about anything in my life. Everything good is a little bit hard. Motherhood’s a lot hard and likewise a whole lot of good. My hard days are 100 times harder than my very hardest day as a working girl—printer malfunctions, big pitches lost seem like cake—and my best days are 100 times better—praise for my craft and big pitches won seem lackluster.

I’m deeply happy with the choice that I’ve made and I want to cry with gratitude at everything my own mother sacrificed for me. She has her master’s, too, and gave up pursuing her doctorate. She’s the very best woman I know. I also know all too well how blessed that I am. I know many women long to be home with their babies and don’t have a choice but to work. They bust their booties every day to provide for their kids and still lead and shape, inspire and teach, change the midnight diapers and engineer the Halloween costumes. These women are heroes right alongside the stay-at-home moms and pretty much any mom who is mothering with all of her heart. Mothers do incredible work and I’m immensely thankful for the awesome honor of doing it 24/7.

I even went to Michael’s yesterday because I needed a picture frame.

And I go to the park pretty often.

It turns out I actually love it.