My day started with my daughter’s cries, her little body squirming in her crib. By 5:15 a.m., I’d be holding her, one hand on my laptop, answering emails. Coffee went cold as I balanced reports and lullabies. Being a single mom meant Zoom calls between feedings and work during naps. For six years, I’d been a standout at my tech job, managing projects and fixing crises. My boss, Steve, once said I was irreplaceable. But when I returned from maternity leave, that changed fast.
I came back tired but committed. “I’m ready,” I told Steve, vowing to keep up despite sleepless nights. He nodded, saying, “Stay sharp.” But the vibe shifted. Colleagues noticed my exhaustion. On a call, someone heard my daughter’s wail. I laughed, saying it was my ringtone, but I muted myself more after that. Then came meetings at 6:30 p.m., impossible with daycare pickup. I asked for earlier times, but Steve dodged me. When my paycheck was late, I asked why. Steve smirked, “Your partner’s got you covered, right?” I reminded him I was divorced, the only breadwinner. He brushed it off, and I felt small.
The end came in a chilly office with Steve and an HR rep, Diane, who didn’t smile. Steve started with fake compliments, then said, “We need someone without distractions.” I frowned. “Distractions?” He said they needed someone for late nights, someone without scheduling needs. My voice was calm. “You’re talking about my daughter.” He didn’t respond. I stood, said, “Thanks for the clarity,” and walked out. My hands shook, but I held it together. They didn’t fire me for bad work—they fired me because I was a mom who dared to have limits.
That night, after my daughter slept, I sat on the couch, still in my blazer. I opened my laptop, turned on the camera, and spoke. “Today, I was fired. Not for my work, but for being a mom. For needing notice for meetings. For asking about my late paycheck.” I stared at the lens. “They called my daughter a distraction. I’m going to show them she’s my strength.” I posted the video. By morning, it had millions of views. Moms sent messages of solidarity, sharing their own stories. One wrote, “If you start a business, I’m in.” That lit a fire in me.
I launched MomWorks, a freelance hub for moms. Soon, I had a team of talented women—developers, writers, designers—all moms, working around their kids’ schedules. We worked from chaotic homes, during nap times, with toys scattered around. Our coder in Atlanta worked with her baby in a sling. Our marketer in Phoenix typed after her kids’ bedtime. We owned our reality. A big client from my old company reached out, moved by my video. Others followed. By the year’s end, we had nine contracts and 30 moms on board.
My daughter’s two now, full of spunk and obsessed with her toy cars. Our mornings are lively, but they’re meaningful. MomWorks has created websites, run ad campaigns, and boosted businesses. Every win feels like defiance against the job that rejected me. That video still circulates, and I smile when it does. They thought motherhood held me back, but it pushed me forward. Losing that job wasn’t my end—it was my beginning.
