No one can do it all.
No one should do it all.

This translates from motherhood to the workplace.

No one can do it all.
No one should do it all.

It’s not something I say often. But it’s something I’ve learned is healthy to say.

It’s not failure.
It’s not giving up.
It’s reality.

It’s acceptance.
Acknowledgement.
Peace.

I can’t do sleep training. I can’t do cry it out - at least not to the extent it seems I’m supposed to for it to “work” or “stick.”

My son is 20 months old. I have not slept through the night since he was born. He has not slept through the night either (except once, a random 9-hour stretch when he was around, I think, 10 months old). I mean, I can’t fault him fully, I’ve NEVER “slept through the night” in my adult life to be honest, call me the insomnia queen, a night owl, whatever you want, I’m a BAD sleeper (but Great napper). Seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

With my son, I’ve tried the Ferber method. I’ve tried cry it out for up to 45 minutes with slight, brief interval check-ins. I’ve tried literally SO many methods recommended by friends, Moms on Call, countless hours of online research, and yes, obviously I’ve asked ChatGPT for recommendations and schedules.

What I’ve been told over and over again by people with babies who sleep through the night is simple:
“Sleep train.”
“Cry it out.”

I can’t. I Just Can’t.
You could, great. I Can’t.

I can’t do it — not more than what I’ve already tried.

I think maybe if I had a husband who could hold me while I felt the physical reactions my body has when I hear that scream, the one that is so different from a tantrum or an “I’m hurt” cry, then maybe I could.

But that scream…

It’s a scream in the dead of the night.
In the dark.
In the quiet.
In the stillness.

It breaks through every barrier of peace and triggers a siren in my veins, in my mind, and in my heart that says: help.

Call it manipulation. (from my young child)
Call it dependency. (from my young child)

All I know is it feels wrong to ignore.

I’ve tried.
I really have.

And it did nothing for him or me except hurt us both.

So I can’t.

I can’t do it alone.

Maybe if I had a husband, a partner, who could hold me through the physical and emotional pain it causes me.
Maybe if someone could let me leave the house for a few nights so I wouldn’t have to hear it or feel it at all.

Maybe then, I could.

But me - just me alone - I can’t.

When I first entered the workplace, I thought I was supposed to know it all and do it all.

I was thrown into a pretty intense executive assistant role right off the bat — where questions meant you were dumb, “figure it out or you’re out” was the mentality, and that pressure was the everyday reality.

I was locked away (literally) in the executive suite, with little time for bathroom breaks and no lunch breaks unless they were in the EVP’s office with her.

Tasks were thrown at me that involved all different parts of the business. Decks filled with information I had to quietly Google — because asking questions meant risking being exposed for not knowing.

I was supposed to know claims, finance, legal, admin, operations, vendor management, event planning, bits of marketing and sales.

And while it was hard and trying, I did learn a lot.

But I couldn’t do it all.

That realization led me into roles where I gathered my footing and built knowledge across the business. Where I discovered my passion for operations and working cross-functionally.

And still, I told myself I had to know it all.

But you can’t.

Not even the CEO knows it all.
(Hence why they often needed me - to help fill in the gaps of what they didn’t have time to see in day-to-day processes, operations, and people management.)

What I’ve learned, and where I’ve found real confidence, is not in knowing it all.

I can’t do it all.
You can’t do it all.

Not well.
Not ever.

We are all different.
Made differently.
Wired differently.
We think differently.

That’s what makes this life and world fascinating.
That’s what makes teams special, vibrant, and strong.
That’s what makes businesses thrive.

As a single parent, I’ve learned to lean into my strengths and accept my can’ts.

While I can’t sleep train or manage cry it out, I am good at going with the flow. At accepting my son for where he’s at. At taking things day by day.

I remind myself that life is short. He is young. And one day I’ll look back - yes, exhausted, but also at peace, knowing I wasn’t forcing something that didn’t feel right just because I was told I should.

Not alone.

As a single mom, some things you are forced to face alone. That’s a reality. It’s not okay - but you’re okay.

And as a business owner, there’s a lot you face alone too, it’s part of it. But you still can’t do it all.

That’s why you hire people who are good at what they do.

I’m really good at venturing out solo with my son. At going with the flow. At knowing when to let go and just be present. At letting tantrums pass without frustration. At letting my hair down and rolling in the mud with him.

As an employee, I’ve learned I’m good at operations.
I’m good with people.
I’m good at figuring out what’s broken and building a game plan to fix it — by identifying and leveraging the strengths of those around me.

Strong businesses allow employees to be aware of their strengths, lean into them, and hold hands as they build something better together.

As a single mom, I’m aware of my can’ts - I don’t always have the option to lean on others so I just have to accept where I’m at, and I leverage others who can (when/if I have the option).
Any good business owner does the same - they are aware of their can'ts, they don’t always have someone else to lean on with all that comes with business ownership or with being a C-suite, but when you do have the option, you lean on your org, your team, so when you come across your can’ts, you have a team that can.

There’s always room to grow.
To learn.
To do more.

But there’s also room to slow down.
To strengthen what already works.
To be self-aware.

I can’t.
You can’t.

And admitting that?

That’s okay.

Because we can.

Motherhood - especially single motherhood - deserves a village. A we.
And sometimes that we is quiet. Small.
Sometimes it’s just you and your child, standing together in the dark.

There are moments I admit I can’t.
And then I see my son’s smile - soft, steady, sure - and it reminds me that we can.
We can make it through another sleepless night.
We can turn extra hours awake into closeness.
We can choose love over frustration, giggles over tears.
We can meet the morning having held each other through it.

Leadership deserves a we too.

Because the strongest businesses, the healthiest teams, the most lasting work - they aren’t built alone.
They’re built in connection.
In shared strength.
In knowing when to lean.

With Grace & Grit - Kenzie