To say this last few months has been draining on the feminists of the world would be a gross understatement. I wish I could tell you I am going to “avoid politics” but that would be a disservice to myself, to my daughter and to my many wonderful fellow humans who are suddenly in a place of incredible uncertainty. Will I have more to say about the state of our government? Most certainly, and barring WordPress falling the way of Orwell’s 1984, I’ll share them here with as much free speech as I can muster.

It is a very hard time to be political.

For 13+ years I have, above all else, made sure that my children were primed for life. I have also always worked, but more often than not, for less than my value and also often less than I would like to. This has been my luxury. Our family’s salary may not be grandiose, but it has certainly sustained us and plenty of adventure to boot. So, while we occasionally turn down invites to exotic locales, and often spend nights around the kitchen table hammering out our tiny budget (looks like no eating out this week, but I signed little miss up for ballet), we have not suffered in any sense of the word.

But many have.

I’m writing this because sometimes, in that little place between regal and poor motherhood and impressive working woman, I swim in a gray land of self-doubt. A land so vast, and so camouflaged that it mostly seems like self-pity. I look terrible when I’m there.

This last year has opened so many adventurous doors, and I see only more on the optimistic horizon. Doors, it turns out, often cost money. As much as I love being available at all times for my kids and also for my community as a persistent volunteer, my work/mommy balance has to shift in the near future in order for my mental-mommy self the chance to afford the growing cost of their perfect childhoods.

And so, self-worth.

There is nothing so dark as a woman’s doubt in herself.

Despite feeling as though I have a life’s worth of experience, and a bucket full of “can do” spirit, when one looks to the greater world and says “what am I worth to you?” the answer does not, as it turns out, feel good. Unless you’ve picked a clear cut career, one with exact definitions, like say “software engineer” or “Pediatrician” there are too many variations on what you, the creative type, are supposed to encompass. Are you a good communicator? Go into marketing? Wait, do you have two years experience as a social media guru? InDesign? No? Nevermind, become a teacher – they communicate? Don’t have a credential? Great, in 2.5 years you can have one, but you should get a masters first if you want a good teaching job. No? Perhaps a receptionist then. It only pays $11 an hour, but since you’re so good with communication you can write about the misery you feel as you imagine you small child sitting in aftercare, which costs coincidentally exactly what you’re making.

Self-pity.

It’s usually at about this point in the mental stream that I land on “I will write a book,” and I tap away at the computer for a bit until I am distracted by the kids, or the school nurse calling, or my disabled brother needing something paid for, or the chickens crowing outside, or a moth flitting by. It’s my pride really, settling at my old laptop on my cluttered desk in my tiny bedroom. It’s my 37 year old ego shaking its fist at life. It feels sorry for me.

This brings me to motherhood and self-worth.

If I were a social worker (for which I do not have the degree), would I pity my small pay check and limited budget? No. I hold such people in high regard. Similarly, if I were an environmental activist, choosing to live minimalistically and work for a small wage lobbying for earth rights, would I feel judgy of myself? No. I would feel I was a super-human fighting for the greater good. So why, why am I so disgusted with my super-mother self? Why isn’t this a badge of honor for me when I’m dwelling at my lowest points? AND…why do I let intensive mothering overshadow any spark of a career?

I think the answer is, fear.

I am an excellent mother force. And I am maybe only marginally the same as everyone else at everything else. Why commit to another job if there is a risk of not being good at it, right? I think we all must ask ourselves this, at least the sane members of this tribe.

I also harbor an irrational fear of my children needing me. A fear that something tragic will happen and that I might not be available to catch them. The psychology behind this is not pretty. All the same, for every moment I am not within reach, I imagine the worst.

I wish I had some prophetic end to this post. Some big circle, that closes neatly and with my self-esteem and self-regard leaping forward into 2017. I’m afraid it doesn’t though, sorry to be a letdown. This is more, for me, the beginning of a conversation with myself about what is valuable and what is not. We are a tremendously delicate time as women. There are angry, horrible men out there who are getting their shot at scaring us all back into our kitchens. They are threatening our children too, in education, in body, in environment.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that what I have been doing is valuable, because I’ve hand-raised two amazing humans, but if I am going to step further out of their circle, it better serve some incredible greater good at this point.  I’ve spent a lifetime making my way through it all with them by my side, and now I want to help others get through it too, not just earn money and increase my own wealth. I want to make us all wealthy somehow.

And now I must decide my self-worth and share it.