Yesterday I attended a table read for a pilot script. It was a curriculum day, so I had to do some serious child wrangling — one off to a playdate with a friend, the other in the opposite direction to out-of-school-hours care. But that’s motherhood, isn’t it? A constant game of emotional Tetris, played in school car parks and with snacks for bribing in every pocket.
I rushed in late, because most mothers are never on time despite our best intentions. Keys in one hand, while the other searched desperately through my bag for my script — but instead, I pulled out a half-chewed muesli bar, some pink hair clips, and a tiny toy donkey that may or may not be emotionally significant to someone.
Still, it was so nice to be in the room. To feel the pulse of shared breath. To wrap my arms around fellow performers and remember what it’s like to speak lines that aren’t "Have you brushed your teeth?" or "We do not lick the floor."
Because more often than not, life and kids make things… different.
Sick kids. Sleep deprivation. A toddler demanding snacks mid-monologue. A four-year-old bursting into your writing time to urgently announce they’ve named their toe "Captain Fartblast." You learn to hit emotional beats while buttering the seventh piece of toast for the day and muting Bluey.
Sometimes you just Zoom it. Trackies on. Bra off. Half-muted. Toddler bribed. Script propped up against a tub of Duplo. Still showing up because this is what fuels us. Even when you’ve been up since 3am and your skin is held together with concealer and willpower, and there’s so much dry shampoo in your hair it's blending in with the newly growing greys.
Being a mother in this industry doesn’t mean stepping back — it means getting creative about how we step in. Meeting a fellow actor at an audition and asking them to watch your sleeping baby in the car while you run inside for your callback. Your children become regulars in your self-tapes as either a director, a heckler
or a scene stealer. A growing baby bump is strategically hidden from the camera behind carefully positioned pillows or under a large jumper, because this role and this baby weren’t supposed to arrive at the same time. Urgently signalling to wardrobe from set because you’ve gone two hours overtime, your baby’s missing your
milk, and your boobs? They just know. Or juggling a toddler on your hip during rehearsal, staying in character while walking toward the male lead opposite you, all while your little one is whispering in your ear — not about your lines, but about dinosaurs, or their sock being "too feely."
And somehow? That interruption makes the moment better. It reminds you why you do this. For the messy, imperfect, beautiful magic that only motherhood and creativity can create.
We’re used to pressure. To chaos.
To making magic in the margins.
I’m currently playing with a script, and one line keeps echoing in my brain: “I’m not mad — I’m just passionate.” Honestly, I’m thinking about getting it stitched onto a tea towel. Or a tote bag. Or tattooed above my left boob.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned? Motherhood doesn’t dilute the dream. It sharpens it. And sometimes, it hands you a tiny donkey and reminds you not to take yourself so seriously.
