The Weight of Guilt: Choosing Work in the Midst of a Crisis

A desk sits by a window, its surface covered with the necessities of work—a monitor, a notebook filled with notes and decisions, scattered papers waiting for attention. Outside, the world continues, trees swaying gently in the breeze, untouched by the weight pressing inside this space. A chair, draped with a knitted yellow blanket, offers warmth, but it doesn’t erase the tension in the air—the quiet pull of responsibility against the emotions that refuse to settle.  

This is the space of decision, of duty, of choosing work in the midst of crisis.  

Returning to work wasn’t easy. My days away had been dedicated to my daughter walking alongside her through the twists and turns of her mental health journey, doing everything in my power to make sure she had what she needed to heal. But there came a moment a breaking point where reality forced a choice: homelessness or work.  

That was the moment I had to make the impossible decision. To leave her home alone and pray that she would be safe.  

The weight of that choice was suffocating. A mother’s instinct is to protect, to be present, to never let go. But reality does not always allow for instinct to rule. And as much as I wanted to stay, to hold her hand through every step, survival meant moving forward even when my heart screamed to turn back.  

There’s a moment, just before you step out the door or open your laptop, where the weight of everything settles on your chest. You know you need to work. Bills need to be paid, obligations met, stability maintained. And yet, something inside pulls at you the feeling that in this moment, when life is unraveling, when crisis looms, you should be somewhere else. Doing something else. Anything but this.  

Guilt creeps in like an uninvited guest, whispering: *How can you focus on tasks when your child is struggling? What does it say about you that you're here, working, when your heart is elsewhere?*  

The truth is, this conflict is deeply human. Responsibility doesn’t pause for hardship, yet neither does the aching need to be present for those in pain. You may tell yourself that work is necessary an anchor in the storm, a form of survival. But even logic does little to quiet the emotional tug-of-war.  

Like this workspace structured, purposeful, but filled with quiet emotion—you sit with the choice you’ve made. You balance the necessity of work with the ache of knowing where your heart longs to be. But choosing work in crisis does not mean choosing to abandon care. It does not make you selfish or careless. It means you are doing what you can within the circumstances you are given. It means you are providing stability financially, emotionally, or structurally even if it doesn’t look the way you imagined.  

There will always be moments when guilt tries to convince you that your choice is wrong. When you feel torn between obligation and emotional presence. But honoring your responsibilities doesn’t mean abandoning love. And sometimes, stability itself is an act of care an effort to ensure that when the crisis passes, there is still something left standing.  

You are doing your best. And that is enough.

A Mother’s Journey Through Tough Choices and Mental Health

Two budgerigars sit side by side, their feathers vibrant, their presence comforting. They are close, yet confined, separated from the larger world by the thin bars of a cage. In their eyes, there is a quiet longing, an instinct to spread their wings, to move freely. And yet, their world exists within boundaries. They are safe, protected from the unknown, but the trade-off is undeniable restriction, limitation, an existence shaped not by their own choices, but by the choices of something greater than them.  

Much like these birds, my child and I exist within the space of both love and limitation. And though she is not behind physical bars, the disconnect between us is just as real felt deeply in the silence, in the unspoken frustrations, in the way my decision to take away her phone has reshaped the way we interact.  

As a mother, keeping my child safe is my highest priority. Every decision I make, even the hardest ones, comes from a place of love and protection. That’s why I took away her phone. Not as punishment, but as a boundary a choice made because I saw risks she didn’t, dangers she couldn’t fully grasp, and patterns that I knew needed to change.  

But in taking it away, I also took something else: her access to the world she had built through it. And now, I feel that weight pressing into our home the silence, the distance, the way she moves through the day with frustration and resignation. We are disconnected not because of technology itself, but because of my choice to remove it from her life.  

I wrestle with that reality. She sees it as isolation, as loss, as an unfair restriction. I see it as protection. And yet, somewhere in the middle, there is hurt on both sides. She is navigating emotions she can’t always express, and I am standing firm in a decision I believe is right, even as it shifts the way we communicate.  

Mental health plays a powerful role in this. Without the phone, she doesn’t just lose entertainment she loses connection, a sense of autonomy, and access to the friendships she has built in a way that feels natural to her. That loss stirs feelings of resentment, frustration, and even withdrawal. And I see it not just in her words, but in her silence, in the way she avoids me, in the unspoken weight of what this change has done to our relationship.  

And yet, my love for her hasn’t changed. If anything, it has deepened, made more urgent by this growing distance. So I lean into presence. I try to remind her, not through lectures but through actions, that connection doesn’t require a screen that love is here, waiting, even when she feels cut off from the world she once had. It’s not always easy. There are hard conversations, moments of resistance, days where it feels like we are speaking different languages. But I refuse to let disconnection win.  

Like the birds, we are still here still existing within the same space, still searching for understanding, still waiting for the moment we can come together again without barriers. And perhaps, in time, as trust rebuilds, as emotions settle, as new ways of connection emerge, we will find a balance one that allows freedom without fear, structure without isolation, and love without limits.  

The world may feel fragmented, but love remains the thread that holds us together. Even when decisions are hard, even when words are met with silence, even when we don’t always see eye to eye I hope my child knows that everything I do is rooted in love. And that no matter the distance, no matter the disconnection, I will always be here, reaching across the gap, waiting for her to take my hand.

The Ripple Effect: How One Person’s Mental Health Impacts the People Around Them.

At first glance, you might see a scruffy, unkempt cat fur tangled, eyes wary, a presence that seems too much to handle. But once you take the time to clean him up, to care for him, to see past the surface, he transforms. He’s not just an abandoned creature; he’s soft, warm, and full of life. The shift is unmistakable and the change doesn’t just belong to the cat. It belongs to the person who cared for him, to the space around him, to the ripple of kindness that moves outward.  

Mental health works in much the same way. The struggles someone faces can make them feel untouchable, withdrawn, like they are too much for others. They hesitate, unsure if reaching out will make them a burden. But human connection thrives on understanding and just as the act of caring for a vulnerable creature changes the way we see it, caring for one another in moments of emotional hardship shifts the way we experience relationships.  

Picture a small stone dropped into a still lake. The first impact is immediate, felt by the one in distress the weight of anxiety, depression, or uncertainty pressing heavy against their chest. Yet, as the waves extend beyond the initial drop, they reach partners, friends, family members, coworkers anyone within their orbit. For loved ones, witnessing someone they care for wrestle with their inner turmoil can stir emotions of helplessness, worry, and sometimes even exhaustion. Emotional energy is exchanged in ways that are both visible and invisible through words, through silences, through the quiet sighs of someone trying to be strong for another.  

And yet, one of the most challenging aspects of mental health struggles is the internal conflict of wanting to reach out but fearing that we might be a burden. We hold our emotions tightly, convincing ourselves that others have their own worries and that ours might be too much. But the truth is, emotions are meant to be shared. Holding everything inside can feel like carrying a storm alone one that only grows heavier over time. Venting, expressing, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable can be healing, not just for us but for the relationships we cherish.  

At the same time, respect for boundaries is key. Not everyone will have the emotional capacity to listen at a given moment, and that’s okay. Finding supportive spaces whether through trusted friends, therapists, or journaling can help bridge that gap. Mental wellness flourishes in environments where communication is open but also mindful. When we check in with others before unloading, we create a space where empathy is mutual and care is exchanged in a way that uplifts rather than overwhelms.  

But here’s the beautiful truth: just as struggle ripples outward, so does healing. Small acts of kindness, moments of vulnerability, and intentional efforts to nurture mental wellness send positive waves throughout relationships and communities. When someone finds the courage to seek help, to voice their needs, or to set healthy boundaries, it creates a blueprint for others to do the same. One person prioritizing their well-being can inspire another to take stock of their own mental health. A compassionate conversation can break cycles of emotional suppression and replace them with understanding.  

Mental health is not an isolated experience it is a shared journey, one that shapes the way we connect with others and build relationships anchored in empathy. The impact of one person’s emotional state does not exist in a vacuum. Whether through pain or healing, we affect one another in ways that linger far beyond the moment. And perhaps that’s one of the most profound reminders we can hold onto: that none of us are truly alone in what we feel. We are part of an ever-moving current of human experience, capable of sending out ripples of hope, kindness, and resilience ♥️