Good enough?

I sit here staring at my screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, knowing exactly what I want to say but hesitating all the same. The truth is, I feel inadequate. Not just today, not just in this moment, but for a long time now. I feel like I am failing at the one thing I promised myself I would never fail at: providing for my family while still being present in their lives.

For years, I have worked in hospitality. Long hours, unpredictable shifts, weekends swallowed whole by service, holidays spent catering to strangers instead of celebrating with my loved ones. It was fine, once upon a time. It paid the bills, put food on the table, and kept a roof over our heads. But at what cost? The exhaustion, the burnout, the creeping realization that I was giving the best parts of myself to my job and leaving scraps for the people who truly mattered.

Then came my youngest, and everything changed. I promised myself it would be different this time. I promised I would be there for the milestones, the school pickups, the bedtime stories that don't feel rushed because I have to be up at dawn for another double shift. But as much as I tell myself that I am looking for something better, something stable, something that gives me that elusive work-life balance, I feel like I am chasing a mirage.

Applying for jobs has become an exercise in self-doubt. Every rejection email feels like a confirmation of my worst fears: that I am not good enough, that my experience is too specific, too niche, too rooted in an industry that does not translate well to a 9-to-5 office role. I have spent years perfecting my ability to handle stress, to juggle responsibilities, to work efficiently under pressure—but try putting that into a resume that doesn't scream "hospitality lifer," and suddenly, those skills don't seem to count for much.

I scroll through job postings, my heart sinking with each one that requires experience I don't have. I tell myself I can learn, I can adapt, I can prove myself, but the gap between what I have done and what they want seems insurmountable. And then there is the money. That awful, looming question: Can I afford to take a pay cut for the sake of work-life balance? Can I risk instability when I have a family depending on me?

I don't want to go back to the way things were. I don't want to be the parent who is always absent, who has to miss birthdays and school events and weekend outings because work demands it. I don't want my youngest to grow up with only fleeting memories of me between shifts. But I also don't want to be the parent who struggles to keep the lights on, who lets financial stress seep into every aspect of home life, who carries the weight of unspoken worries every single day.

It is a brutal limbo, this feeling of inadequacy. Too experienced in the wrong ways, too inexperienced in the right ones. Too desperate for change, too afraid to make the leap. Some days, I feel hopeful—hopeful that the right opportunity will come, that someone will see my potential, that I will finally be able to break free from this cycle. Other days, it feels like I am running in circles, caught in a system that doesn't know how to value me outside of the industry I want to leave behind.

I remind myself that I am more than my job history, more than the shifts I have worked, more than the rejection emails and unanswered applications. But knowing it and believing it are two very different things. And so, I sit here, staring at my screen, hoping that tomorrow will bring something new, something better. Hoping that one day, I will no longer feel like I am choosing between being a good parent and being a good provider. Hoping that one day, I will find a way to be both.