In which a Mormon momma decides to go to work

It was almost 18 months ago that my husband finally said, “Aly, maybe you should consider applying for a teaching job for next fall.” He’d made a couple of comments to that effect over the last couple of months (which I’d quickly dismissed), but this time I could tell that his suggestion was sincere. Which is why I immediately exploded into angry tears at him as I launched into the speech I hadn’t even realized I’d already written about why I, a mom of two kids under four, absolutely could not.

To be clear, I was not under the impression that working women were incapable of being good mothers. I remember driving around Rexburg several years before this as a young, single college kid with a friend who, in the course of our conversation, told me with conviction that “God would never give a mother a revelation to work outside the home.”

I’d disagreed. Growing up, I had seen too many examples of good working moms to believe a statement quite as absolute as that. Still, what I did believe (which reflected teachings I’d heard all my life ) was what I still had mentally locked away as truth several years later as I rage-cried at my husband for suggesting that I think about pursuing my dream job. In my mind, in order for it be OK for me to work, one of the following had to apply:

1. Because of death, divorce, or disability, I needed to be the breadwinner for my family.
2. Our family would endure serious financial struggles if we didn’t become a dual-income household.
3. The work was temporary, very part-time, and/or was something I could do from home while my kids napped or whatever.
4. Serious mental illness made it impossible for me to safely stay home. Or, at the very least…
5. My husband and I could have flexible enough work schedules to where our kids would always be with one of us, OR one of us had a parent or sibling close enough who could watch them.

When my husband suggested that I teach, neither #1 nor #2 applied. Number 3 was not something I had any interest in, and our situation made #5 impossible.

It’s true that I struggled to be happy as a stay-at-home mom (which is why the idea that I apply for a job was brought up in the first place). Despite the counseling I’d received, the meds I’d been prescribed, the friends we’d made, the community we’d worked to fit in with, and the creative ways I’d found to get all of us out of the house, I felt largely detached from the dynamic, purpose-driven, meaning-making person I’d been before. I spent most days heavy with the guilt I felt at the dread, restlessness, distractibility, and frustration I so often dealt with as a stay-at-home-mom but couldn’t seem to sufficiently manage. And I usually found myself alternating between the extremes of being an emotional wreck and trying to emotionally detach myself from the feeling that I was failing my kids, that I must not really love my daughters that much, or that I must be a deeply selfish person to not find more joy in this thing that so many of my truly lovely stay-at-home friends at least appeared to find with relative ease.

Still, none of what I was feeling was anywhere near serious enough for #4 to really apply. Therefore, I told my husband, nothing about our situation made it OK for me to work.

I can’t remember how or why the conversation took such a turn at this point (maybe because my husband’s response to my speech was especially good, or maybe because I’d unwittingly been thinking in this direction anyway). But by the end of our conversation and for the first time since I’d become a mom three years earlier, I reluctantly agreed to think about it.

What followed was kind of a blur that included a lot of researching, worrying, avoiding, talking with my husband and close friends, and searching through articles and posts on the Aspiring Mormon Women Facebook group and website. I had to work through the deep inadequacy I felt at even considering applying for a job when I hadn’t taught beyond my student teaching and it had been *so long* (five years, but that still felt like an eternity) since I’d earned my degree. And I also had to gently confront the part of me that refused to believe that other people in addition to my husband and me could love and care for our daughters, too; or, rather, that having other caregivers in their lives who weren’t family when I didn’t have a good reason to be working in the first place—that was key—didn’t mean that my kids would be messed up and hate me and their dad for the rest of their lives.

My last struggle with all of this was with God, who I was already on tenuous terms with. Because of various mental and spiritual shifts that had occurred within me over the last few years, God was an entity that I no longer confidently understood how to conceptualize or approach: a presence of love and wisdom that had once been so easy to access but now seemed almost impossible to find. My insecurity there meant that it was easy to believe that the legalistic, supremely disappointed voice that sometimes runs through my thoughts was an accurate representation of how God felt about me working:

“You’d best have a very good reason if you’re going to abandon those precious babies to run off and be a teacher,” I’d hear versions of again and again in my brain.

Then, one night as I sat on my couch scrolling through social media while imagining a bearded God shaking his head at my ingratitude (such mental multi-tasking), I came across this article by “Today’s Parent” Editor-in-Chief Sasha Emmons, written as a letter to her young daughter about why she works.

These words hit me with enough force that I’m going to quote a good chunk of it:

“There are many reasons mommies work,” she writes.

I work because I love it.

I work because scratching the itch to create makes me happy, and that happiness bleeds over into every other area, including how patient and engaged and creative a mother I am…

I work because I did this before you were born, and I’ll still want it to be there after you go off to college.

I work because… you’d never ask your father why he works. His love is a given that long hours at work do nothing to diminish.

I work because even at your young age you’ve absorbed the subtle message that women’s work is less important and valuable—and that the moms who really love their kids don’t do it.

I work because by the time you have your own daughter, I cross my fingers this will not be so.

So, to answer your question: I do love work, but of course I love you and your brother much, much more. If I had to choose, I would choose you guys.

But I’m so happy I don’t have to. And I hope you never do either.

Love, Mom

This working momma’s reasons weren’t unfortunate, and they didn’t seem to be there only because some better, holier Plan A had fallen through. Rather, her reasons were both empowering and compassionate. And as I slowly read through each of them, all of the chaos swirling around inside me—the worries and fears and negative self-talk and preconceived notions of what it meant to be a “good” mom—kind of went quiet. It was one of those rare moments when everything settles and the path forward appears there in the distance, clear and bravely lit, and you’re reminded for maybe the thousandth time that Love is not fearful or small-minded or restricted by the boxes that we humans like to put each other into; that God doesn’t actually have a one-size-fits-all plan for how to go about creating a good life—even if you’re a Mormon mom.

A few notable things have happened between then and now. One is that I did end up getting a teaching job, and another is that it was a really hard year. Moving from a single- to a two-income home forced my husband and me to take a hard look at how we balanced responsibilities and communicated our feelings and prioritized our time, and every member of our family has had to make sometimes painful adjustments. But it is important to note too that this year was also so good. Working through all of the stress and chaos of this past year has made us a stronger and more resilient family in so many ways. And the joy and growth I find in my work not only spills over into my interactions with my family, but has just helped me feel like a whole human again. It’s empowering to realize that you can be more than one thing.

As I write this, I’m aware that there are many mothers in the world who would love to stay home but cannot, and that there are many moms, too, who wish they could work but have circumstances that won’t allow it. I realize that the choices I have are a privilege. If either or both of my daughters become mothers someday, I hope that they will have that same privilege.

If they do, though, I hope that they will understand sooner than I did that that privilege cannot be accurately summarized as a choice between whether a mom will be a good one who stays home or a selfish one who works. Instead, I hope that they will understand that there are a billions ways to be a good mom and awesome human, and that the privilege is being able to choose how to go about writing their own rich, messy, meaningful stories. When my girls someday look back on how their dad and I tried to author ours, I hope that they will be able to see an example that encourages each of them to be thoughtful, deliberate, and brave as they write theirs. And when they’re grown and think back on how their mom chose to work not because she had to but because it made her soul happy, I hope that they’ll see in that a reminder that they too are worthy of creating and pursuing their own dreams.