When They All Call You “Mom”: The Emotional Cost of Teaching and Mothering at the Same Time
This year, I taught 2nd grade.
And this year, my own son was in 2nd grade, too.
We pulled into the parking lot together each morning—his little backpack slung over his shoulder, mine loaded with everything from lesson plans to leftover emotions—and we walked in side by side. He was just a couple portables down from me. He’d head into his room, I’d head into mine. We were in the same building, only steps apart, and yet it often felt like miles.
In one portable, I was Mom.
In another, I was Mrs. Rada.
But no matter what name I answered to, the emotional pull was the same.
My students needed me.
My son needed me.
And most days, I felt like I was giving everything I had to both—and still coming up short.
Teaching young children is emotional labor. Yes, we teach reading and math and kindness and growth mindset—but we also wipe tears, deescalate meltdowns, tie shoes, navigate playground drama, and sense the silent pain behind certain smiles. We are caregivers. Stabilizers. Emotional anchors. And we do it all while keeping 20+ tiny humans engaged, safe, and seen.
It’s a job that asks for your whole heart.
And when you give your whole heart from 8 to 3, you don’t always have enough left when you get home.
This year especially, I felt it. My students—who I love deeply—pulled on me in the same ways my own children do. They needed eye contact. Patience. Gentle tones. Warmth. Regulation. Reassurance. And so did my kids at home. And I was the common denominator.
There were days I came home and went straight to my room—not because I didn’t love my kids, but because I was already emotionally maxed out.
There were days I snapped over spilled milk or background noise—not because it was a big deal, but because I’d already used up every ounce of self-control during a tough day at school.
There were days I sat in my car for ten extra minutes just to cry, then wiped my face and walked in like nothing happened.
And the worst part? The guilt.
Because even when I knew I was doing my best, I still hated the feeling that my students were getting the best of me while my kids got the rest of me.
I wanted to have more to give.
But I was already spent.
And I didn’t know how to refill faster than I was pouring out.
That’s the part no one talks about.
How hard it is to hold space for everyone’s emotions—including your own—when you’re stretched that thin.
How it’s possible to love your job and your kids with your whole heart and still feel completely worn out by 4:00 PM.
How easy it is to go numb when everything feels like “a lot” all the time.
But here’s what I’ve started to learn: I cannot keep giving all of myself away—not at school, not at home—without losing pieces of who I am. I can’t keep surviving off of scraps of rest and calling it self-care. And I definitely can’t keep telling myself I should be fine just because I love both of my roles.
So I’ve started protecting my peace in small, quiet ways.
I take five minutes alone before I pick up my kids—even if that means sitting in the school parking lot in silence.
I’ve started saying “I need a minute” instead of pushing through resentment.
I give myself permission to not be 100% emotionally available all the time.
I forgive myself for the moments I fall short—because I know I’m showing up with love, even when I’m tired.
I’m learning that boundaries are not the opposite of love—they’re how I sustain it.
That being emotionally available doesn’t mean being constantly accessible.
That I don’t have to choose between being a good teacher and a good mom—
But I do have to stop forgetting about the woman in between.
The one who gets up early and stays up late.
The one who remembers everyone’s birthdays but forgets to eat lunch.
The one who is trying, so hard, to show up for everyone—while silently wondering who’s showing up for her.
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🧡 Lately, here’s what’s helping me come back to myself:
– Five quiet minutes in the car after school
– Letting the laundry wait while I lay on the floor and play
– Drinking water before I serve snacks
– Not answering emails after 6 PM
– Releasing the guilt when I choose presence over perfection
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If you’re in this season too, I want you to hear this:
You are not weak for feeling overwhelmed.
You are not broken for needing space.
You are not selfish for saving some energy for your own kids.
You are not failing for having nothing left at the end of the day.
You are doing holy, sacred, often-invisible work.
You are teaching and mothering and surviving and growing—all at once.
You are the emotional home for so many people.
And you deserve to feel held, too.
This season is hard, but you’re still showing up.
And that counts for more than you know.
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💭 Journal Prompt:
Where do you feel most emotionally drained—and what small boundary can you set to protect your peace?
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💬 Let’s Connect:
If you’re in this season too, how are you making space for yourself right now?
Leave a comment or share this with another mom who might need to feel seen.