Gemma Hartley

I am sometimes painfully envious of other (usually childless) writers who are doing the very thing I swore I would have done by now — publishing a novel.

My husband and I have been together for 12 years, eight of them married, four of them teenaged.

Clearly, it does not take long for my over-ambition to turn me from a vision of perfection into a train wreck you can't look away from. Behold, my first week of school splendor, versus my second week of school ineptitude.

Again and again I refuse to prioritize, refuse to let anything slide, at the expense of my physical and mental health.

I want and need to save some room for myself, to know that I am worthy of a place in the world without the label of mother.

I’m not saying there is no joy to motherhood. I go through periods where I do feel like I’m at my parenting best. There are times when I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the amazing life and children I’ve been given. It can be so, so good. But what I’m saying is, it doesn’t always have to feel like that.

The money is great, but it is not the best part of becoming a working mom. Having my own career has shifted the power balance of my relationship.

There is a chasm separating "bad behavior" from "being bad." Our kids have to learn from us that their one-time actions do not permanently define them.

My resolutions regularly remind me that I don’t think I am enough, just as I am. So this year, instead of focusing on habit changes, I'm more concerned with changing my perspective.