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You dream of quitting a toxic job, pivoting to a new career, or starting your own business. But there’s a financial reality to such a move: can you afford to earn less?
In 2021, I quit a job as an executive at a tech company. I pivoted into content marketing and journalism, and, initially, I was earning about one-third of my previous salary. But I had spent months looking at our household budget, and was prepared to earn even less.
When you’re determined to make a change, you’ll look at your finances differently. You should calculate your “freedom number” and understand the changes you need to make in your budget.
Keep in mind that your freedom number is not your final destination. It’s a transitional change in your income to pursue the career you want.
Why your freedom number matters
Your freedom number is the bare minimum you need to cover your essentials: rent/mortgage, groceries, insurance, utilities, etc. It’s not the same as what you’re spending to support your current lifestyle.
Calculating your freedom number forces you to think about what you’re willing to give up—even temporarily.
Let’s say you’re earning $100,000 today and think you need to earn $80,000. But once you go through the numbers and cut everything nonessential, you might find that the number is far below $80,000. Knowing that makes it easier to navigate a career change, because you know what you need to get by.
The bare minimum is your freedom number.
Closing the gap in your freedom number
If you don’t think you’ll earn enough to cover your monthly expenses, there are ways to close the gap between your income and your freedom number.
You might build up some savings and draw from that account when you make your move. Or you could supplement your income with a side hustle.
When I first changed careers, I took a new full-time job and freelanced on the side. The combination of my new salary and my freelance earnings helped me reach my freedom number. It meant working in the evenings and on weekends, but it was worth it to make the change.
Keep in mind that a lower income might be temporary. Within eight months of starting a new career, I took a new job at a much higher salary. I just needed to get a bit of experience on my resume, and then many more doors opened for me.
As you settle into your career change and earn more, you can add back the things you enjoyed about your lifestyle. The temporary squeeze is worth it to find a freedom number that makes a lot of career options possible.
When you become a parent, your concept of “free time” gets redefined in the most brutal way. You start fantasizing about solo grocery runs. You get excited when a dentist appointment means sitting in a chair in silence. And don’t even get me started on the thrill of closing (and locking) the bathroom door.
Parenting swallows every spare minute like a hungry hippo. Between permission slips, dinner planning, bedtime negotiations, and locating whatever oddly specific object your kid needs for school tomorrow, your own needs don’t make the list. Add in the demands of a job or trying to keep a career from flatlining while your toddler wipes yogurt on your Zoom shirt and suddenly “me time” feels like a myth.
But here’s the thing no one tells you: carving out time for yourself isn’t selfish. It’s survival. And it doesn’t mean you love your family any less. It just means you also love yourself, which—fun fact—your kids need to see more of.
Step One: Ditch the Martyr Act. It’s Not a Good Look
Somewhere along the line, we were sold the idea that the best parents sacrifice everything. They pour every ounce into their families and never, ever ask for a refill. But let’s be real. Exhausted, resentful parents are not fun to live with. They don’t make great partners. They don’t make patient caregivers. And they’re one burnt pancake away from a breakdown.
What actually helps our kids? Seeing us take care of ourselves. Seeing us value our time, our dreams. Seeing us rest. Yes. Rest. It’s not lazy. It’s necessary. You can’t run on empty and function like a human being.
Step Two: You Have to Take the Time. No One’s Handing It Out
Time won’t tap you on the shoulder and say, “Hey! Here’s an hour to write/take a nap/go on a walk.” You have to go after it like it’s the last slice of pizza and everyone’s pretending not to be hungry.
You may have to get up a little earlier (I know, but hear me out). Or coordinate with a partner or fellow parent for a kid-swap. And yes, that might mean blocking off your work calendar with an appointment that’s really just you taking a sanity stroll around the block or sitting in your car to eat a croissant in peace. That’s okay. We’ve all done it. No guilt.
Step Three: Redefine What “Self-Care” Means for You
Not everyone’s version of self-care involves face masks or golf. For some, it’s a quiet workout. For others, uninterrupted time on a passion project. Maybe it’s updating your résumé or watching something without talking animals.
Sometimes self-care is messy. It’s writing one paragraph with a baby monitor on one side and laundry on the other. It might mean finishing a work project with a hot coffee and zero interruptions because work can be fulfilling too (when you’re not doing it under duress). It’s texting a friend, “I need an hour. Can we trade off next week?” It’s choosing yourself again and again.
Step Four: Guilt is Lying to You
Let’s talk about guilt. That ever-present gremlin whispering, “You’re missing quality time,” or “You should be organizing the closet.” Guilt isn’t your inner compass. It’s your inner saboteur. Doing something for yourself doesn’t mean you’re neglecting your family. It means you’re showing up as a more grounded, fulfilled version of yourself. Even if that fulfillment comes from finishing a presentation in silence or eating lunch without someone asking for a bite. And if your kids miss you for an hour? They’ll survive. More importantly—they’ll see what it looks like to honor your own needs.
Step Five: Let Them See You Do It
Kids don’t just listen. They watch. If we constantly run ourselves ragged and call it love, they’ll think that’s what they’re supposed to do too. Let them see you say no. Let them hear, “I’m doing something for me right now.” Let them know work matters to you too, whether it’s because you love it or because it pays for the chicken nuggets. That’s not abandonment. That’s modeling emotional intelligence and boundaries which are two things they’ll thank you for. Well, probably much, much later, but still.)
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“Mom guilt” is such a familiar phrase that we rarely stop to ask what it really means—or why it’s so persistent. It describes that quiet, gnawing feeling that many mothers carry: that we’re not doing enough, not present enough, not loving, patient, or creative enough. That we’re falling short, even when we’re doing our best.
But what if that guilt isn’t just about personal choices? What if it’s not a private emotional shortcoming, but a reflection of something much larger—cultural messages, historical expectations, and systemic gaps that shape how mothers live and feel today?
This essay offers a different way to think about mom guilt: not as a flaw in individual women, but as a symptom of a society that demands too much, offers too little, and then asks mothers to feel bad about the gap.
A guilt with no off switch
Psychologically, guilt is often defined as a moral emotion—a response to doing something wrong and wanting to make it right. But mom guilt rarely stems from a specific mistake. Instead, it often shows up as a vague, persistent sense of inadequacy. It lingers, shapeless but heavy.
Because it’s so diffuse and constant, mom guilt may be less a personal emotion and more a shared emotional pattern—a kind of cultural atmosphere. Cultural theorist Raymond Williams called this a structure of feeling: not a formal rule, but a common way of feeling shaped by a particular time and place. In this view, mom guilt isn’t just something mothers feel—it’s something we’ve been taught to feel.
Where did these expectations come from?
To understand how this emotional pattern developed, we need to look at the historical construction of the “good mother” in American culture.
After World War II, the ideal mother was cast as a full-time homemaker: white, middle-class, married to a breadwinner, and entirely devoted to her children. Her work was invisible but essential, and her worth came from self-sacrifice.
By the 1990s and early 2000s, that ideal had morphed into what sociologist Sharon Hays called intensive mothering: mothers were now expected to be constantly emotionally attuned, manage every detail of their child’s development, follow expert advice, and sacrifice their own needs to do it all. And even as more women entered the workforce, this new model still assumed unlimited time, energy, and emotional bandwidth.
The result? Many mothers felt stretched thin, torn between competing demands: be selfless but successful, always available but independent. Mom guilt wasn’t a sign of failure—it was a natural outcome of being asked to do the impossible.
The role of systems—and their silence
These expectations don’t exist in a vacuum. They’re intensified by how little structural support American families receive. Unlike many wealthy countries, the U.S. offers no guaranteed paid parental leave. Childcare is expensive and hard to access. Most workplaces still operate as if someone else is handling everything at home.
When mothers feel exhausted or overwhelmed, the message they receive is: Try harder. Be more grateful. Find balance. This reflects a deeper cultural logic—one that blames individuals for structural problems. In this model, the solution to burnout is self-help, not social change.
Mom guilt thrives in this space. It turns systemic failure into personal shame. It keeps women striving, quiet, and inwardly focused—wondering if they’re doing enough, instead of asking whether society is.
Guilt is gendered
It’s also important to say this clearly: mom guilt is not evenly distributed. Fathers, especially in heterosexual partnerships, are rarely expected to feel guilty for long work hours or needing rest. When they show up for parenting, they’re often praised for “helping.”
Mothers, by contrast, are expected to organize their lives—and emotions—around their children’s needs. Sociologist Arlie Hochschild called this emotional labor: the often invisible work of managing others’ feelings. In families, mothers are expected to carry the emotional weight. When they fall short, they feel guilt—not just about actions, but about presence, patience, and even joy.
So what do we do with it?
Rather than telling mothers to “get over” their guilt, we might ask: what is this guilt doing? Who benefits from it?
Mom guilt isn’t just a feeling—it’s a social mechanism. It keeps women pushing toward unattainable ideals, keeps them quiet about their needs, and keeps attention focused inward instead of outward. It makes it harder to question the systems that are, in fact, failing us.
There’s no quick fix. But there’s power in naming it. When guilt creeps in, we can pause and ask:
- Where did this “should” come from?
- Whose expectations am I trying to meet?
- What would I need—personally and structurally—to feel less torn?
These questions won’t erase guilt, but they can loosen its grip. They shift the story—from one of individual failure to one of cultural clarity and collective care.
