Remote work has been the best thing for me as a parent but the worst as a person

• At first, remote work gave me an amazing gift: more time with my kid.
• After several months, though, I felt something unexpected: a loss of self.
• My home had turned into a never-ending workplace, and I'd become its most overworked employee.

Before remote work, my days were a blur of day care drop-offs, traffic jams, hastily packed lunches, and a mad dash home to cook dinner before bedtime routines.

I spent most of my time feeling like I was failing at something — either at work, because I was leaving early to pick up my toddler, or at parenting, because I barely had enough energy to read a bedtime story without nodding off.

When my company announced a shift to remote work during the pandemic, I thought I had won the ultimate prize.

At first, it felt like a dream

No more commutes, no more scrambling to get out the door with a cranky toddler, no more guilt about leaving the office at a respectable time.

Instead, I was home — able to prepare healthy lunches, sneak in cuddles between meetings, and actually witness my child's milestones instead of hearing about them from a day care report.

I felt like I had gained back something immeasurable: time.

However, as the weeks turned into months, I started to feel something I hadn't expected: a deep, gnawing loss of self.

My home became a never-ending workplace

The blurred boundaries between work and home life meant I was never truly off the clock.

I'd wake up and immediately check emails while still in bed. I'd play LEGOs with my child while half-listening to a Zoom call. I'd wrap up my workday and head straight into dinner prep without any mental transition from "employee" to "mom."

My home had turned into a never-ending workplace, and I had become its most overworked employee.

I found a new kind of guilt

The guilt I once felt about being away from my child morphed into a new kind of guilt: the guilt of never feeling fully present.

When I worked from an office, at least I had a clear separation between "employee" and "mom."

Working from home, though, meant my son would pull at my sleeve while I was finishing a report, his little face hopeful, only for me to say, "Just five more minutes," knowing full well it would be longer.

I wasn't just missing out on time with him — I was physically there but mentally elsewhere, and that felt worse.

Then came the isolation

Remote work stripped away the casual office interactions I never realized I needed. The small talk by the coffee machine, the quick "How was your weekend?" chats in the hallway, the spontaneous lunch invites.

Instead, my entire social interaction outside my immediate family was reduced to Slack messages and video calls that ended as soon as the work discussion wrapped up.

I missed the commute I once hated. As annoying as it was, it had been a clear divider between my professional and personal life — a time to mentally switch gears. Now, that transition didn't exist.

Despite the challenges, I've had moments of undeniable joy

The spontaneous lunchtime dance parties in the kitchen, the ability to witness my child's excitement when he discovers something new, the sheer relief of not having to race the clock every morning — it all matters.

Remote work has been the best thing for me as a parent and the worst thing for me as a person.

It's given me irreplaceable moments with my child, but it's also made me feel stretched thin, unsure of where parenting ends and work begins.

Some days, I wouldn't trade it for anything. On other days, I fantasize about having a quiet office, a lunch break alone, and the ability to leave work behind at the end of the day.

So where does that leave me?

Like other parents navigating this newish reality, I'm still figuring it out.

Maybe the answer lies in setting stronger boundaries, reclaiming faded parts of my identity, or simply accepting that balance is a myth and life is just a series of trade-offs.

For now, I'll take the small wins — the midday snuggles, the absence of a long commute, and the simple joy of eating lunch together at the kitchen table.

I'll cherish the privilege of being present for the little moments, like hearing my child's laughter down the hall or stepping away from my desk to help with a puzzle.