Feeling Guilty About Being Away From Your Kid: What I Learned As A Mom And School Counselor
Last month, I ran into my 4-year-old Lila’s daycare 14 minutes late, rain seeping through the shoulder of my work blazer, my laptop banging against my hip. All the other kids had been picked up 20 minutes earlier, and she was perched on the front desk next to her teacher, twisting a crumpled crayon drawing of a cat between her fingers. She looked up when I walked in, and said, quiet, “You worked too late again, huh?” That gut twist I know so well hit me immediately—the same guilt I’ve felt every week for the three years since I went back to full-time work as an elementary school counselor. I wanted to scoop her up, quit my job, and promise I’d never leave her again. Instead I knelt down, said “I did, and I missed you all day. Let’s go get your rain boots.”
For the first year and a half I was back at work, I handled that guilt the way a lot of us do: I overcompensated. I’d pick her up late, then stop at the store for a pack of glittery stickers or a lollipop, even though I knew sugar would make her bounce off the walls until bedtime. I’d skip work events I’d spent months prepping for if she had a minor cold, just because I couldn’t shake the thought that she’d forget how much I loved her if I wasn’t there. Once I even tried to plan a big weekend trip to the zoo after a week of 10-hour work days, and she fell asleep in the car 20 minutes after we left the house. I sat in the parking lot crying because I’d messed that up too.
It was a regular Tuesday at work when the shift in my thinking started. I was meeting with a second grader who’d been acting out in class for months. His mom stays home full time, and she kept saying she didn’t understand why he was so disruptive—she was there all day, what was wrong? We talked through his daily routine, and it turned out that between caring for his baby sister and his grandma who lived with them, he never had 10 minutes where it was just him and his mom, no distractions, no one else needing anything from her. I suggested she try one small thing: 10 minutes of building with his blocks after dinner every night, no phones, no one else allowed in the living room. A month later, his behavior had calmed down completely, and his mom told me she couldn’t believe how much such a tiny thing changed things. That’s when it hit me: I’d been so focused on making up for the time I was away that I wasn’t actually being present in the time I had.
I stopped buying extra treats and skipping non-negotiable work meetings. Instead I started three tiny, low-effort rituals that take almost no extra time, and they’ve made more of a difference than any big trip or fancy toy ever did. First, when I pick Lila up, the first 10 minutes in the car are phone off, no work talk, just us. I always ask two questions: what was the silliest thing that happened today, and what was the yuckiest thing. She rambles, I listen, I don’t fix the yucky thing unless she asks me to. Second, I put one tiny sticker in her lunch box every morning before I leave. Most of them are the free ones I pick up from book fairs at my school. She collects them on the side of her water bottle, and she shows every new one to her friends before she puts it on. Third, when I get home after she’s already in bed (which happens about once a week when I have evening meetings), I leave a tiny handwritten note on her nightstand that just says “I dreamed about you today” and draw a little heart. No grand gestures, no big declarations. Just small, consistent reminders that she’s on my mind even when we’re not together.
As a school counselor, I talk to parents about this every week. A lot of us assume that more time together equals a stronger relationship, that if we’re away too much our kids will end up with lingering issues, that we’re failing them if we can’t be there for every snack day and soccer practice. But what I’ve seen, both with my students and my own kid, is that what kids actually need is predictable, intentional connection. It doesn’t have to be 40 hours a week. It just has to be reliable. One trick I picked up that helps when the guilt creeps in is I name the disappointment out loud to Lila, instead of trying to buy my way out of it. If I miss an event, I don’t brush it off or overexplain. I just say “I’m really sad I missed your recital. That makes me feel awful, I wish I could have been there.” I don’t buy her a new bike to make it up. I just sit with the feeling with her. That teaches her that it’s okay to feel let down, and that my love for her doesn’t disappear when I’m not in the same room.
I still feel the guilt, most days. Last week I missed her first soccer picnic because of a mandatory district training, and when I got home she pulled a squished, melted cupcake out of the bottom of her backpack that she’d saved for me. I sat on the kitchen floor and ate it with her, and the whole time that little voice in my head was saying you’re missing all the good stuff. Some weeks I’m so tired after work that even the 10 minute car chat feels like a chore, and I turn on a podcast to listen to on the drive home, and I feel guilty about that too.
I don’t have this all figured out. There’s no perfect fix for working and being a parent, for having to be away more than you want to be. But these days, Lila tells me that her favorite part of school is that she gets to paint with her best friend, and her favorite part of the whole day is when I pick her up. That’s enough for me, right now. Some days that’s all I can give, and it turns out it’s enough for her too.
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