Two years ago, somewhere between figuring it out and fully spiraling, I said something out loud to a few people close to me.
“I’m going to land another New York client, and it’s going to have me there every month.”
It felt bold. Slightly unhinged. Definitely specific.
Fast forward to now, and I’m doing exactly that.
As a Canadian who built a marketing consultancy for parent-focused brands in the US market, travel has always been part of the deal. I’ve never been afraid of it. If anything, I leaned into it. I grew up watching my mom travel to New York for work, and it always felt like this whole other world, fast-paced, important, bigger than what I saw day to day.
So when a very aligned opportunity came up, one that felt like it was built for me, I didn’t hesitate. It checked every box. The kind of work I love. In an industry I’ve carved out a voice in. With a leadership team that genuinely gets it.
There was just one catch: they wanted someone local to New York.
I sent the DM anyway.
Long story short, it worked. And now I’m on a plane to New York once a month.
But this version of travel feels different.
Not because of the flights or the meetings or the city itself. But because of who I am now.
I’m a mom of two. Seven and three. I’m out of the postpartum fog, out of survival mode, and very much in a season where I’ve told myself it’s all gas, no brakes. I’m building, scaling, speaking, and showing up.
And then suddenly, I’m back in New York. Alone. Moving through the same kind of energy I used to romanticize.
There was a moment recently. I landed, got ready in an airport bathroom, and headed straight to a meeting. Curls barely cooperating, makeup done under fluorescent lighting, answering emails between voice notes while my phone was propped up on a paper towel dispenser.
And I had this weird, full-circle realization: I met a version of myself I used to chase.
She was independent. Focused. In motion. Fully in her career. The version of me who thought success meant choosing this life and only this life.
Back then, I never pictured kids in the equation. Or marriage. It always felt like it had to be one or the other.
And yet, here I was.
Same ambition. Same city. Same drive.
But also… a husband at home holding it down. Kids acting like they don’t miss me. A life that is full in a completely different way.
That’s when it hit me.
I didn’t meet my future self in that airport bathroom.
I met an outdated version of what I thought success had to look like.
Because the real flex is I get to step into that world. And then I get to come home.
To the quiet. To the chaos. To the messy house. To my kids telling me about their day. To my husband who is fully in it, showing up, managing the details, and making sure everything runs just as smoothly when I’m gone.
Side note. The way daycare teachers praise dads for simply being engaged parents is a whole other conversation. But I’ll save that for another day.
What I will say is this.
These trips have become something I didn’t expect.
They are not just work trips. They are mirrors.
They remind me of who I was. They show me who I’ve become. And they give me a glimpse of who I’m still becoming.
It feels like I’m having my cake and eating it too. And I know that phrase usually comes with a side of guilt. Like you’re not supposed to say that out loud. Like you have to pick a lane and stay there. But I’m done with that narrative.
Because what if you don’t have to choose?
What if you get to build the career, take the trip, sit at the table, and still come home to the life you built with intention?
What if discomfort is actually the doorway, not the warning sign?
So if you’re a mom and an opportunity comes your way that requires travel, that stretches you, that makes you question how it will all work, and you’re in a position where you can say yes…
Take the meeting.
Book the flight.
Figure it out as you go.
Let yourself be reintroduced to parts of you that maybe got quieter but never left.
Because little you, the one with big ideas and no blueprint, is watching.
And trust me, she would be really proud of how you did it.
