When Motherhood Meets Ambition

I had planned to write today about the guest lecture from Gareth and Claire from the Senedd. I was genuinely looking forward to it. But within minutes of it starting, my phone rang. School. I needed to collect my son.

The morning had already been fragile. The tumble dryer had refused to dry the uniforms properly. Traffic had been relentless. I had arrived at university feeling tight-chested and rushed, carrying more stress than I cared to admit.

My Uni girl met me in the café. Her smile, her reassurance, her calm presence softened something in me. We chatted. My stress lifted slightly. The sugar from the chocolate brownie helped too, if I am being honest.

But underneath, there was a hum of pressure. Tort coursework. The mediation exercise that afternoon. My placement reflection due at ten o’clock. Work frustrations that have been sitting heavily for weeks. The hackathon in two days’ time. So many spinning plates.

So when I finally sat down, notebook open, ready to focus, the last thing I wanted was to rush back to school.

I panicked.

I felt guilty for leaving. Embarrassed for interrupting something that mattered deeply to me. And beneath it all was that familiar, heavy weight of motherhood, the sense that loving your child and pursuing your ambition are somehow still in competition.

During the twenty-minute drive, my mind spiralled into problem-solving mode. How would I “fix” my absence? What alternatives could I offer? Would my group think I had let them down? Could I join via Teams if nap time aligned perfectly? How much would I need to apologise? How much extra would I need to do to prove so I would not be seen as the weak link?

Having worked in schools for years, I know the script. If you leave for a parental issue, eyebrows lift. Colleagues are frustrated at covering. Managers remind you gently but firmly that this leave is unpaid. That you may not be able to make up the hours. There is an unspoken message: if you have children, that is your choice. The job comes first. Thirty pupils rely on you. You cannot work from home. You cannot redistribute responsibility. And progression? That becomes complicated. If absence happens too often, your role quietly shrinks. You are reminded to be grateful for holidays and pensions.

So guilt becomes internalised. It becomes yours.

I expected that familiar weight to fall on me again.

But something remarkable happened.

There were no looks of irritation from fellow students. Only concern. Hannah, our lead tutor, was worried about my child. No eye-rolling. No subtle annoyance. Just reassurance that it would be okay.

My Uni girl radiated compassion.

As I messaged my group, bracing myself to explain, I was met with warmth and practical solutions. We would make it work. I could join remotely. Our tort tutor Karen, allowed me to participate online without questioning the legitimacy of my absence.

I was not blamed.
I was not shamed.
I was not made to feel like a failure for being a mum.

The contrast was startling.

Flexibility does not weaken a team. It strengthens it. Inclusion is not indulgence. It is intelligent leadership. By allowing me to contribute differently that day, I was still able to participate, to add value, to belong.

What moved me most was the effortless acceptance from my much younger, mostly male teammates. There was no drama. No judgement. Just cooperation.

It gave me hope.

Hope that the next generation understands that productivity and humanity are not opposites. That ambition and caregiving can coexist. That making space for life does not diminish commitment.

And perhaps, quietly, there was also a sadness. A realisation that the place I once thought would hold my professional heart for decades no longer aligns with who I am becoming.

Maybe that is not loss.

Maybe it is growth.