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I love to work.

There. I said it.

And not in a hustle-glorifying, achievement-chasing way (although that’s part of it).

I love the challenge of figuring things out. I love building things, solving problems, pouring myself into something that feels meaningful. Work lights up a part of me that nothing else quite touches.

Of course, my people come first. My family, my friends—my dogs who somehow know when I’ve had a day—they’re at the top of the food chain. That’s not up for debate. But lately, it seems like saying “I find fulfillment in work” is treated like a confession. Like it means you’ve bought into the wrong values or you’re missing what really matters. And that never sat right with me.

And if you’re a parent—especially a mother—that pressure doubles.

We’re told that if we’re truly present, truly connected, truly “good,” then our family should be enough. Fulfillment should come from soft play mats, school drop-offs, and making sure everyone’s taken care of. And if it doesn’t? If part of us lights up when we’re working on a project or solving a complex problem or building something outside the home? Well…we start questioning our wiring.

I’ve done that questioning. I’ve asked myself if loving work meant I was doing something wrong. If it made me less available, less maternal, less grounded. But the more I chased that version of “enough,” the more I disappeared from my own life.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: the problem isn’t loving your work. The problem is letting it be the only place you go to feel like you matter.

Work is part of my aliveness—but it’s not my whole identity.

There was a stretch of time where I forgot that. I let work consume everything—not because I loved it too much, but because I was trying to prove I was enough through it. I let my self-worth hang on outcomes, validation, and visible results. I lost myself in productivity and called it purpose.

And eventually, I burned out. Not just physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. I had confused effort with value. I had confused being needed with being worthy.

That unraveling led to something quieter. Slower. I started asking new questions:

>> What if I could love work—deeply—and still be whole without it?

>> What if my ambition didn’t make me less present, but more alive?

>> What if I didn’t need to choose between purpose and presence?

I stopped trying to shrink my love of work to fit someone else’s definition of balance. I also stopped giving work a job it was never meant to hold: making me feel like I was enough.

Now, I let work be what it is. A place I enjoy. A challenge I welcome. A part of my story—but not the author of it.

I still love to build, lead, and solve. But I also know how to pause. How to walk away. How to let rest be productive and joy be reason enough.

So if you’re someone who loves to work—someone who finds light there—don’t shame yourself for that. You don’t have to apologize for lighting up in places that aren’t always romanticized.

Just remember: your worth was never meant to be proven in output.

You can love your work. Just don’t forget to love yourself more.

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