When I talk to women in Further Education about stepping into senior leadership, I hear the same worries I once had myself; the fear of letting someone down, of not coping, of life at home falling apart the moment you take on more responsibility. I remember it vividly because I’ve been there too. This is the story of what I thought would happen when I applied for my first senior role and what actually did.
When I was 38 and applying for my first senior leadership role in FE, I had a list of catastrophes playing on repeat in my head at 3am.
- What if one of my children has an emergency at home and I’m in a meeting with the Principal?
- What if I have to go abroad for work and there’s no one to stay with the kids?
- What if there’s a school emergency and I can’t leave?
Every single one of these felt like a legitimate reason NOT to apply. Because, unlike most of my colleagues, I was doing this alone. Single mum, two teenagers, no partner to share the load.
Here’s what I told myself: “When these emergencies happen, I’ll have no one. My career will be over, or my kids will suffer. Probably both.”
I’d been in my middle management role for 5 years. I enjoyed it, but there was little opportunity for progression and I knew I wanted to develop as a manager. I was good at what I did. Actually, I could do the job standing on my head. But every time I thought about stepping up, the catastrophe scenarios would start rolling.
Then a colleague needed a coaching guinea pig for her diploma. I thought, why not? That coaching challenged the barriers I was putting in my own way (all assumptions, it turned out), opened up new possibilities, and got me believing I could do it.
Within four months, I’d applied for a Deputy Director post and got it. Twelve months after that, I became an Assistant Principal.
So here’s what actually happened over 5 years in senior leadership:
The 5 emergencies
Emergency 1: The car crash
What I feared: My son or daughter would have a bump in the car, panic, ring me in the middle of a crucial meeting, and I’d have to choose between my child in crisis and my professional credibility. I’d have to leave the meeting, everyone would think I was unreliable, and I’d be proving every stereotype about working mothers right.
What actually happened:
My daughter pranged my car a few weeks after passing her driving test. She was shaken but unhurt. The car was drivable but damaged.
And she didn’t ring me.
She rang her Aunty because, in her words, “I knew Aunty Emma could get out of work more easily than you.”
Her Aunty picked her up, drove the car to the garage, got it sorted. I found out hours later when I got home from work.
What I learned:
I’d raised a daughter who could problem-solve under pressure and who understood priorities. When I’d worried about this scenario, I’d imagined her falling apart and needing me to rescue her. The reality? She was more capable than I’d given her credit for.
I’d also built a family network. Yes, I was lucky to have a sister nearby. But I’d also ASKED for help before I needed it. I’d had conversations with my sister and my mum about what support they could offer if I stepped up. I’d made sure my kids knew who to call for what. That didn’t happen by accident.
The uncomfortable bit:
Part of me felt guilty that she didn’t call me first. Like I’d failed some invisible “good mother” test. There was this voice in my head saying, “See? She knew you weren’t available. She knew not to bother you.”
But when I asked her about it later, she said, “Mum, you were in an important meeting. I was fine. Why would I interrupt that?”
Turned out SHE was more pragmatic about it than I was. She wasn’t feeling abandoned. She was feeling capable.
Emergency 2: The 5-day work trip abroad
What I feared: I’d have to say no to international opportunities because I couldn’t leave my teenagers alone for that long. Or I’d go and they’d burn the house down, have wild parties, feel abandoned, or something terrible would happen and I’d be on another continent unable to help.
What actually happened:
An opportunity came up to go to a conference in America. Five days away. It was good for my development, good for my profile, exactly the kind of thing I should be doing in a senior role.
I nearly said no automatically. Then I thought, what if I actually ASKED for help instead of assuming I couldn’t do it?
I asked my mum and my sister if they’d take turns staying overnight while I was away. They said yes. No drama, no guilt trip, just “of course we will.”
The kids’ feedback afterwards? “It was actually great having someone there when we came home from school.”
What I learned:
I’d been catastrophising about how much they needed ME specifically. What they actually needed was someone being there, and it didn’t have to be me 24/7.
Also, teenagers quite like a change of routine sometimes. They got on well with their Granny and Aunty. They enjoyed the novelty of it. It wasn’t the abandonment scenario I’d imagined.
The uncomfortable bit:
I’d spent YEARS thinking “I can’t do X because there’s no one else.” But I’d never actually ASKED.
My pride and my “I have to do everything myself” attitude had been keeping me stuck more than the actual practical barriers. I’d convinced myself I was being realistic when actually I was being a martyr.
When I finally asked for help, people were willing. But I’d wasted years not asking because I thought it would be a burden, or because asking felt like admitting I couldn’t cope.
Emergency 3: Locked out of the house
What I feared: One of the kids would be locked out, unable to get in, and I’d be two hours away in a meeting with the Principal or at a Governors’ meeting, completely helpless. They’d be standing outside in the cold (or rain, or dark), upset and scared, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
What actually happened:
My younger daughter broke the key in the back door lock. Couldn’t get in. It was after school, I was at work, probably in a meeting.
And she didn’t ring me in a panic.
She walked to the local DIY shop, explained the situation, and asked for help. They came back with her, got the door open, and she was inside within half an hour. She texted me later to tell me what happened. Not even a phone call. Just a casual text: “Broke the key, got it sorted, all fine.”
What I learned:
I’d underestimated my kids’ resourcefulness. Massively.
I’d been so busy imagining worst-case scenarios where they needed me to rescue them that I hadn’t realised I’d actually raised them to handle situations themselves. They could ask for help from other adults. They could think on their feet. They didn’t fall apart without me there.
The uncomfortable bit:
This one made me stop in my tracks when it happened. Relief, pride, guilt all mixed together.
Because on one hand, I was so proud of her for sorting it herself. On the other hand, there was this voice saying “What kind of mother isn’t there when her child is locked out?”
But it also made me realise that maybe me being slightly less available had actually BUILT their resilience rather than damaged them. They’d learned to cope because they’d had to. And that’s not a bad thing, even though the “good mother” narrative in my head told me it was.
Emergency 4: The sick child call from school
What I feared: This would happen ALL THE TIME and my colleagues would think I was unreliable. I’d become “that mother who’s always leaving early” or “always calling in because her kid is sick.”
I’d seen the way people talked about women who had to leave for childcare emergencies. The subtle eye-rolls. The “must be nice” comments. I was terrified of being that person.
What actually happened:
It happened ONCE in three years.
School rang, said my child was feeling sick, could I pick them up.
And you know what? It was so RARE that I didn’t mind asking for the time off. Neither did my colleagues. They were completely fine about it. Sympathetic, even.
What I learned:
The thing I’d been catastrophising about (constant interruptions, having to leave meetings all the time) barely happened.
Teenagers don’t get sick as often as younger kids do. By the time they’re at secondary school, the emergency calls drop dramatically. And when it DID happen, people were understanding because it was clearly exceptional, not a pattern.
The uncomfortable bit:
I’d been using this imaginary scenario to justify not applying for YEARS. “What if they ring and I have to leave?”
But I’d never asked: how often does this actually happen?
I’d treated a low-probability event as if it was inevitable and constant. I’d let a fear of something that might happen occasionally stop me from pursuing something I wanted desperately.
When I actually tracked it, the “emergency school calls” I’d been dreading happened once in three years. ONCE. I’d wasted years worrying about something that was statistically insignificant.
Emergency 5: The 6th form crisis
What I feared: If there was a genuine emotional crisis, I’d have to choose between being there for my child and being professional at work. And whichever I chose, I’d fail at the other.
I’d either abandon my child when they needed me, or I’d let down my colleagues and prove I wasn’t cut out for senior leadership.
What actually happened:
My daughter made the wrong choice of 6th form college. She’d chosen based on what her friends were doing, not what was right for her. Within a few weeks, she was miserable. Refusing to go in. Shutting down emotionally. It was a genuine crisis.
I took the morning off work. I sat with her. We talked it through. I helped her move to her preferred 6th form college. It took most of the morning to sort out the admin, the meetings, getting her enrolled somewhere new.
What I learned:
When something REALLY mattered, I could and did choose my child. And the sky didn’t fall in at work.
No one questioned it. No one thought less of me. My career didn’t implode. I emailed my line manager, explained the situation, said I’d be back in the afternoon, and that was that.
The uncomfortable bit:
This is the one that still gets me. Because I DID have to choose. And I chose her. And it was the right choice.
But I also learned that these moments (genuine “drop everything” crises) were MUCH rarer than I’d imagined. Most of the time, it wasn’t an either/or. Most of the time, both could co-exist.
I’d convinced myself that stepping into senior leadership meant I’d be constantly choosing work over my kids. The reality? In three years, I had to make that choice once. Once.
And when I did, I chose them, and my career survived just fine.
The bit I’ve avoided telling you until now
Years later, when my kids were adults, I asked them what they remembered most from those years when I was in senior leadership.
I don’t know why I asked. Maybe I was looking for reassurance. Maybe I needed to hear them say it was all fine.
Their answer? “Coming home to an empty house.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.
Because that was exactly the thing I’d been terrified of. The thing I’d told myself made me a bad mother. The thing I’d nearly not applied for the role because of.
And they DID remember it. It WAS real.
I sat with that guilt for a while. Turned it over in my mind. Wondered if I’d made the wrong choice after all.
But here’s what else they said when I pushed past my guilt and asked more:
“We learned to be independent.”
“We appreciated it more when you WERE home.”
“You taught us that women can have careers and be good mums.”
“You wouldn’t have been as happy staying where you were.”
Here’s the truth no one tells you about the “can I have both?” question:
There IS a cost.
Your kids might come home to an empty house sometimes. You might miss some school things. There will be moments where you have to choose, and someone will be disappointed.
But there’s also a cost to NOT doing it:
Your kids come home to a mum who’s resentful, bored, financially stressed, and teaching them that women should play small and hide their ambition.
Both choices have costs. The question is: which costs are you willing to live with?
For me, the costs of staying stuck (losing myself, modelling limitation to my kids, financial pressure, growing resentment) were bigger than the costs of stepping up (empty house sometimes, occasional guilt, having to juggle).
My kids are now adults. They don’t resent me. They’re proud of me. They’ve told me they’d rather have had a fulfilled, occasionally absent mother than a present, miserable one.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t KNOW that would be true when I applied for the role. I took the risk anyway.
Here’s what I wish someone had told me when I was doubtful about applying
The emergencies you’re catastrophising about? Some won’t happen. Some will happen but will be manageable. And the genuine crises (the ones where you DO have to choose)? They’re rare enough that when they happen, you CAN handle them without your career collapsing.
The thing that kept me stuck for YEARS wasn’t the actual emergencies. It was my ASSUMPTION that they’d happen constantly and I’d have no way to manage them.
I was making up stories without evidence:
- Assuming senior roles REQUIRE you to be unavailable to your family (without testing whether that’s actually true)
- Assuming my kids would fall apart without me there constantly (without recognising I’d raised resourceful humans)
- Assuming my colleagues would judge me for any family commitment (without actually experiencing it)
- Assuming I’d have to choose between career and family constantly (when the reality was I had to choose properly maybe once in three years)
All assumptions. No evidence. But those assumptions kept me stuck and bored in a role I’d outgrown for five years.
Three questions to ask yourself
1. How often have these “emergencies” actually happened in the last year vs how often you’ve worried about them?
I bet if you actually track it, the emergencies you’re catastrophising about are far less frequent than your 3am anxiety would have you believe.
2. When they did happen, did you handle them?
I bet you did. You found a solution. You juggled. You made it work. You’re more capable than you’re giving yourself credit for.
3. What support network could you build or ask for if you needed it?
I thought I had none. Turns out I did, I’d just never asked because I thought I had to do everything myself.
Who could you ask? What help might be available that you haven’t explored yet because asking feels like admitting you can’t cope?
What no one tells you about being a single mum in senior leadership
I’m not going to lie to you. It was hard sometimes.
There were evenings when I got home at 8pm after a Governors’ meeting and felt guilty that I hadn’t been there for dinner.
There were times when I had to say no to work opportunities because I genuinely couldn’t make them work with school holidays.
There were moments when I looked at my male colleagues (most of whom had wives at home) and thought “This would be so much easier if I had what they have.”
But here’s what else was true:
I was fulfilled. I was challenged. I was using my brain fully instead of operating at 60% capacity in a role I’d outgrown.
I earned significantly more, which meant less financial stress for the family and more opportunities for my kids.
I modelled to my daughter that women can be ambitious AND good mothers. I showed my son that women belong in leadership.
I stopped being resentful and started being energised.
And my kids? They turned out fine. Better than fine.
If you’re reading this and thinking “Yes, but…”
“Yes, but I’m not a single parent, I have a partner…”
If I could do this alone, you can absolutely do it with support. But here’s the thing: even with a supportive partner, you’ll still feel that “it has to be me” emotional burden. That’s not about whether you have help, that’s about how we’re wired as women and mothers. So let’s talk about how to manage THAT.
“Yes, but you had family nearby for backup…”
I did. I was fortunate. But I also spent years NOT asking for their help because I thought I had to do everything myself. What support might be available to you that you haven’t explored because asking feels impossible?
“Yes, but my kids are younger than yours were…”
Fair point. Younger kids do need more hands-on care. But before you use that as a reason to wait, ask yourself: how old do they need to be before you’ll feel ready? Because I’ve seen women use “when my kids are older” as an excuse for years, and then when the kids ARE older, there’s a new excuse.
“Yes, but what if I don’t have anyone to ask for help?”
Then we need to talk about what’s actually realistic for you. Maybe senior leadership right now genuinely isn’t feasible. Or maybe there are creative solutions you haven’t considered yet. But let’s base that decision on REALITY, not assumptions.
What about you?
What emergency are you catastrophising about that’s stopping you from going for what you want?
Are you making assumptions about what senior leadership requires without any actual evidence?
Are you treating low-probability events as if they’re inevitable and constant?
Are you underestimating your kids’ resourcefulness or your own capability to handle challenges?
Here’s what I know: The version of senior leadership you’re imagining (impossible juggling, constant crises, failing at everything) probably isn’t the reality.
But the only way to find out is to test it.
Let’s reality-test those fears together
If you’re stuck where I was (wanting more, convinced you can’t have it, going round in circles), let’s talk.
I offer a free 30 minute call for women in FE who are considering career progression but aren’t sure how to make it work with family life.
Because here’s what I learned: the thing keeping me stuck wasn’t the actual barriers. It was the STORIES I was telling myself about the barriers.
And once I challenged those stories with evidence, everything changed.
P.S. My kids are now in their twenties. I asked them recently if they felt my career damaged them or if they resented me being in senior leadership. Their answer? “Mum, you were always there when it mattered. And you showed us that women can have ambition and be good mothers. Stop overthinking it.” Turns out the person judging me most harshly was me.
Book a call with me
We’ll talk about what you’re looking for and whether coaching feels like a good fit.
