Mornings started with my son’s wails, his little arms flailing in his crib. By 5:00 a.m., I’d be rocking him while checking emails, my laptop balanced on my knee. Coffee sat forgotten as I juggled meetings and bottle feedings. Life as a single mom was a blur of spreadsheets, diaper changes, and muted Zoom calls. For five years, I’d been a star at my marketing job, leading projects and training new hires. My boss, Greg, once said I was the team’s rock. But when I came back from maternity leave, that rock started to crumble.
I returned to work sleep-deprived but eager. “I’m all in,” I told Greg, promising to keep up despite the chaos of new motherhood. He smiled, saying, “That’s the spirit.” But things felt off. Coworkers commented on my tired appearance. During a call, someone heard my son’s cry and raised an eyebrow. I joked it was my alarm, but I stayed muted after that. Then came the late-night meetings, scheduled without warning. I asked for earlier times because of daycare, but Greg ignored me. When my paycheck was delayed, I brought it up. Greg laughed, “You’ve got a husband to cover you, right?” I corrected him—I was divorced, the sole provider. He shrugged, and I felt invisible.
The end came in a stark meeting room with Greg and an HR rep, Karen, who stared blankly. Greg started with empty praise, then said, “We need someone without distractions.” I blinked. “Distractions?” He said they needed someone free for late hours, someone who didn’t need scheduling accommodations. My voice was steady. “You mean my son.” He didn’t argue. I stood, said, “Thanks for being clear,” and left. Inside, I was furious. They didn’t fire me for poor performance—they fired me because I was a mom who asked for basic respect.
That evening, after my son was asleep, I sat in the dark, still in my work clothes. I opened my laptop, hit record, and spoke. “I got fired today. Not because I wasn’t good, but because I’m a mom. Because I needed fair hours. Because I questioned a late paycheck.” I looked into the camera. “They called my son a distraction. I’m going to prove them wrong.” I posted the video. By dawn, it had millions of views. Moms from everywhere shared their stories, their anger, their support. One comment stuck: “If you build something, I’m in.” That was my cue.
I started MomForce, a collective for mom freelancers. Within a week, I had a roster of skilled moms—programmers, marketers, editors—ready to work around their lives. We worked from living rooms, during nap times, with kids in the background. Our writer in Miami typed with her baby on her lap. Our designer in Denver worked after her kids’ bedtime. We embraced our chaos. A major client from my old job contacted me, inspired by my video. More signed on. By year’s end, we had seven contracts and a team of 28 moms.
My son’s two now, full of giggles and picky about his snacks. Our days are busy, but they’re ours. MomForce has built apps, launched campaigns, and grown businesses. Every project feels like a stand against the workplace that discarded me. When I see that video online, I grin. They thought motherhood was my weakness, but it’s my strength. Losing that job didn’t stop me—it set me free to build something bigger.
