moms on strike!
In a past life, I wrote poetry pretty regularly. I’ve always been a creative person, but since becoming a parent and an entrepreneur, most of that creativity has been funneled into building businesses and raising kids rather than traditional artistic outlets.
Today I was feeling totally zapped creatively so I decided to tap ChatGPT to help capture the essence of “moms on strike.”
Here’s the backstory. When I was a kid, my mom actually did go on strike. For three days, she refused to do anything around the house because she felt so unappreciated. And she was absolutely right. I’ll never forget the first night—my dad tried to make pasta, and I was convinced my sister and I might starve if Mom didn’t come back.
So this poem is for every mom who’s ever fantasized about walking out the front door just to be seen, heard, and appreciated for the invisible, invaluable invisible labor she does every single day.
If you liked the essence of this poem and want to share something similar with your young children, check out one of my favorite books about a mom who stops cleaning the house to prove a point: Llama Llama Mess Mess. It’s very cute!
Moms on Strike
They dropped the lunch bags, still zipped tight,
Left dishes stacked in morning light,
Hung aprons high like flags of peace—
And walked out slow, a bold release.
No more socks matched with half-closed eyes,
No more sighs met with hollow replies,
No more fixing what none could see—
Their absence now the loud decree.
They met at dawn in parking lots,
In yoga pants and coffee spots,
With toddlers strapped and babies fed,
They marched for all the tears unsaid.
Signs scrawled in crayon, “WHERE’S MY PAY?”
“TRY JUGGLING LIFE FOR JUST ONE DAY!”
With diapers slung like protest gear,
They chanted truths none dared to hear.
We are the keepers of the lists,
The finders of what no one missed,
The meal preppers, the therapy schedulers,
The bedtime song and wound patch meddlers.
We make the magic, wipe the mess,
Spin gold from chaos, more or less.
And yet, when asked what we do all day,
They blink and look the other way.
So now we stand, together strong,
A sisterhood that's waited long—
Not for praise, or fleeting cheers,
But recognition through the years.
Until they see what goes unseen,
And name the weight we bear between
Each silent task and thankless chore—
We won't go back. Not like before.
The strike is love with boundaries drawn,
A rising tide, a breaking dawn.
For every mother who’s unheard—
We walk. We roar. We keep our word.
