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It was difficult for me to admit that I was ambitious, long before motherhood came my way. I remember feeling this little monster inside that itched at my mind constantly.

Impatience, I remember calling it. I just wanted a lot of things and I wanted them all right now and I was willing to get up every single day to go create and build and attract and solicit.

The day I realized I wasn’t impatient or greedy or selfish but rather I was ambitious – an identity I could wear with pride – was the day I started getting comfortable with who I was, where I was going, and how I was built. It was like a diagnosis: all of my symptoms made sense, all of my behaviors fit into a box, all of my late-night yearnings, anxieties, and rumblings were the source of this one, big thing: AMBITION.

A thing that so beautifully consumed me. It wrapped me around in blankets of obsession. Told me stories of big, bold futures. Ignited beliefs in me that I could do, be, and have anything. It woke up with me excited to make the most of the day and it went to bed with me calculating the strategy of tomorrow. It had me journaling, visualizing, meditating on, and working through any challenge that came my way. Obstacles were keys to the next level. Discomfort was a sign of being on the edge of a new break through territory. Faith was needed in moments of risk. It held me in a world of massive possibility and for the first time in my life, I allowed my ambition to guide me into a life of alignment.

And then, I got pregnant.

Albeit, a planned pregnancy between my wonderful husband and myself – together nearly ten years at that time, a struggle to get pregnant after a year and a half of trying to conceive. An incredibly conscious decision on behalf of the both of us.

And yet, I was pregnant – and pregnancy and ambition are two opposing forces and so, the battle within began.

Mom guilt started brewing as I began cursing the all encompassing physical experience of pregnancy against my want, my need, my hunger to work. I was wondering what this meant for my future identity as a mother. I wondered why I couldn’t accept this season of my life (looking back – well, because I never planned for it to be the only season). My fears and anxieties around the balance of being a present mom and a woman who fulfilled herself were echoing as the weeks advanced.

I was also extremely clear on the type of mother I wanted to be: I wanted my daughter to feel emotionally safe and loved. I wanted to show her how to ride the waves of the human emotional spectrum. I wanted to communicate with her in a way that allowed her the space to ignite, create, and strengthen her emotional intelligence. I wanted her to feel loved. I wanted, when with her, for her to feel as if she is the only thing in my life…

…even though she isn’t.

BREAKING THE THIRD WALL BECAUSE I NEED TO TAKE A DEEP BREATH AS I WRITE THAT LAST SENTENCE. A FEW DEEP BREATHS. OH THE SHAME. OH THE REALITY. OH THE FUCKING LIES THEY TOLD US. HOW COULD OUR CHILDREN BE OUR WHOLE LIVES WHEN WE HAVE PARTNERS? WHEN WE OURSELVES ARE DAUGHTERS? WHEN WE ARE FRIENDS? WHEN WE ARE COLLEAGUES? WHEN WE ARE GRANDCHILDREN? OH THE FUCKING LIES THEY TOLD US. THE ONLY THING IN OUR LIVES?! IT IS IMPOSSIBLE. FOR WE BIRTHED THEM INTO OUR LIVES – OUR COLORFUL, FULL, HECTIC, AND WONDOROUS LIVES. IS IT BAD THAT WE WANT OUR CHILDREN TO BE AN ADDITION NOT THE ENTIRETY OF THE PAINTINGS WE WORKED SO HARD TO PAINT? IS IT A BAD THING THAT MY DAUGHTER WILL KNOW I HAVE OTHER PRIORITIES – LIKE MY HUSBAND, HER FATHER? CAN I LOOK AT HER AND HAVE HER FEEL LIKE SHE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MY WORLD WHILE ALSO HAVING HER LOOK AT ME AND SEEING A MODEL OF A BIG, BEAUTIFUL, EXPRESSED LIFE? WHY CAN’T MY ROLE BE MODELING THE MOST INSANE LIFE FOR MY DAUGHTER? WHY CAN’T I BUILD WHILE I MOTHER? WHY CAN’T I SHOW HER WHAT IS POSSIBLE?

When these emotions come up, I remind myself that men are not plagued with these inner wars to the intensity that they come up for women – which is part societal construct and part very real biology. The power, intuition, and force of a mother is unmatched. It comes upgraded into her DNA when she gives birth. It comes online as she holds her child. Never go up against it. You will lose. Again and again and again.

And so, I went on a quest for answers. I looked to other women – finding great solice in Emma Grede speaking about motherhood on Jay Shetty’s podcast – “I am every woman” – she says. It is not either or, she says. She is an ambitious woman in her career and a present mother with her children. Lower the expectations, she says – in the best way possible.

I was speechless as I listened to her speak with such assurance – on the way home from work as my daughter was about six months – feeling seen and heard and empowered. I have listened to that episode more times than I can count when I need a motherhood pep talk, when I need to be reminded that who I am deserves to be celebrated and not shamed.

And yet, it was this one quote in particular that hit me to my core and became my ambitious mother anthem. It is the quote of Carl Jung:

“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents.”

And that is when I knew. That is when I cried. That is when I allowed. For whatever reason – call it trauma from my childhood, call it my destiny in this life time, call it the real purpose of my soul – I am called to live a very full and grand life. And if I do not rise up to that life, it will live unlived within me for the entirety that my lungs breathe.

If I choose to not live that life and keep it unlived within, that regret will live on my daughter’s chest. Even if I never tell her about it. Even if I keep it to myself. Even if she never even knows. It will linger in the way I raise her. It will live between moments of chaos. It was take over my eyes. It will dampen my heart. It will distract me – little by little, moment by moment, until I am numb. Until I am resentful. Until I am a shell.

That is a mother I will never allow my daughter to have or to see. That is a mother I will never give my daughter. That is a mother I will never allow to come to fruition.

A self-abandoning mother is the greatest form of betrayal we can model to our children.

My daughter will never be the excuse nor the reason for why I left my life unlived. I would never do that to her.

And so it is in the question – What life do I want to live? – that I can begin to understand what type of a mother I want to be, what type of a vision I get to showcase for my daughter.

For some, a lived life is to raise their children at home. For others, a lived life is to raise their children and go to work or build a business or write a book. THERE IS NO “JUST” IN THESE STATEMENTS. WOMEN DO NOT JUST STAY AT HOME AND THEY DO NOT JUST WORK. THEY SIMPLY ARE WHAT THEY ARE AND WHEN THEY ARE FULL EXPRESSED, THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL.

I cannot claim that my ambition does not cause me shame or guilt today as a mother of a 19 month old beautiful girl. But I do know that when my daughter cries in the middle of the night, she calls for me. And when I hug her, her nervous system calms down. I do know that she walks up to me and gives me kisses on my leg. I do know that when I am home with her, she has my whole attention. I do know that I heavily calculate and strategize what type of work is worth being away from her. I do know that her emotional growth is always top of mind. I do know that I am patient during her tantrums. I do know that I am intentional when I set boundaries so she can grow to be resilient. I do know that I go the extra mile when she needs me. I do know that she loves me and I love her – fiercely. I do know that I am the person that spends the most amount of waking hours with her. I do know that I am her comfort when she falls or is scared or is in pain. I do know that she loves me. Gosh do I know that she loves me. And I do know that I love her. Beyond what words can even paint.

And I know that I am ambitious and that I have big plans for me and my girl’s life.

And those two things – my deep ambition and my deep love for her – are all I really need to know.