No, you cannot be sick

I was married, raising three boys, working full-time, and trying to build my startup somewhere in between. At work, my title was manager. The work I was doing was a director’s. The director had been let go, apparently because things weren’t going well with her clients or colleagues. She’d been two levels above me and earning twice my salary. When she left, I had to jump in and take over her accounts. Within a few weeks, both the clients and my colleagues were happy with the quality of my work. So I could do the job. That part was clear. But the title and the salary hadn’t followed. More than ten years of experience, taking on a director’s responsibilities, and I was still a manager. At home, I had a few more titles. Mother. Wife. Cook. Nurse. Tutor. Cleaner. Head of logistics. The person responsible for the food shopping, the school drop-offs, the pick-ups, and remembering what everyone needed before they remembered it themselves. I was the head of the household. The Queen. A queen who could usually be found checking what was left in the fridge. At least at work, I could sometimes take a break—provided nobody decided my lunch was the perfect moment to come over for a chat. And unless work spilled over, I had weekends off. Off from the paid job, anyway. On a Saturday morning, I still needed to be up by nine to sort out breakfast if I wanted to find the kitchen in anything other than complete chaos. Three boys can accomplish a lot before you’ve had your first coffee. Then there was the rest of the day. Meals, washing, tidying, questions, arguments, and whatever we were supposed to be doing that I needed to get everyone ready for. My startup fitted into the time I could find around all of it. I knew looking after my children was my responsibility, and I loved them. I also knew I had plenty to be grateful for: a job that paid reasonably well in New York, a husband, and the three boys we were raising together. All three looked like him, of course. I did all that work bringing them into the world, and he got the faces. But being grateful didn’t make me less tired. The thought of being ill worried me. Who would keep track of everything? How would the household carry on if I couldn’t get up and do my part? Even when I needed to rest, I’d find myself thinking about what still had to be done. People called me a strong woman. I understood why. I kept going. At work, I took on more responsibility. At home, I found a way to get things done.