What No One Tells You About Maternity Leave in France

Reflections on three maternity leaves, career shifts, what it means to be a mother in France.

Cover photo courtesy of Amber Fillerup.

I want to preface this by stating: motherhood is a gift. I have the privilege of raising three healthy children in a country that offers support for parents, which I know is far from true for many families in the unfair world we live in.

A quiet moment, suspended between two worlds.

There’s a kind of baby nap that feels like a breath and a sprint all at once. Just long enough to open your laptop, respond to one email, maybe two. That’s when I write at the moment—between feeds, school pick-ups, and moments of stillness that are as fragile as they are precious.

This week, I’m pausing the Parisienne series to write about something else that’s been on my mind lately—motherhood, work, and what it really costs women to rebuild a life after baby. It’s a more personal topic but it’s something I’ve been circling in my head throughout my maternity journey —and even more with every maternity leave I’ve lived through in France.

This is my third time. You’d think by now I’d know how to navigate it. But each baby brings a new version of yourself. Each return feels like a first.

After my first son was born, I went back to work when he was just two and a half months old. I know this might not seem that early depending on your country’s maternity leave policies, but it felt early to me at the time (and still does). We started with a nanny, then transitioned to la crèche until school at age three—as most families do here. At the time, remote work wasn’t an option. I only saw him after 7 p.m. on weekdays—later if I had an evening work event, dinner with friends, or a date night with my husband—and on weekends that rushed by like afterthoughts. I thought that was just how it was. Being a cool mother was being the one who "balanced" it all. That’s the dream we’re sold, isn’t it?

Then the pandemic hit. Daycare closed, and suddenly we were home with our 9-month old full-time and without outside help. That’s when I realized—his daycare nanny knew him better than I did. I didn’t know how to soothe him. I didn’t know his rhythms. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like a working woman who happened to be a mother. I felt like a stranger to my own child.

The second time was different, but not easier. I’d been laid off a few months after returning from my first maternity leave—confirming the fear that had quietly trailed me throughout that entire period: that my spot would vanish in my absence. Ironically, I’d planned my maternity leave (and yes, actually my pregnancy) to fall during the slower summer months, thinking that would mean missing fewer important decisions and not weakening my position at work. That served to be a life lesson. I reaped exactly what I was afraid of and worked hard to avoid. Once the "grace period" when you can’t be fired after maternity leave legally in France ended, I was laid off. My boss had decided to continue with the configuration that had worked while I was away.

For my second pregnancy, I was no longer working and technically jobless. So when an opportunity appeared while I was still on leave, I didn’t think, "Great—I can trust that work will come when I’m ready." I thought, "Say yes now or risk having nothing." Another life lesson: opportunities come when you need them—don’t jump on the first one out of fear. I went back to work when my second son was just two months old. We hired a nanny in record time—she wasn’t a good fit, and we had to let her go. Third lesson: don’t hand your kids off to someone you haven’t fully vetted. They matter more than any job.

Since breastfeeding was so important to me (see a pattern? I was really the overachieving do-it-all type), I pumped milk in an open-plan office, crouched behind a couch with a side panel to shield myself, and stored milk containers hidden in a plastic bag in the communal fridge (I was afraid to gross anyone out with my breastmilk—though is that even a thing?). Sometimes, during back-to-back video meetings, I pumped with the camera on (breasts out of sight, of course). A colleague once asked about the mechanical sound in the background when I unmuted. She was a mother too, but I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I was embarrassed. Why? I suppose it felt like I wasn’t "fully working" if I was also pumping at the same time. French law technically allows for pumping breaks, but in this job, I had meetings scheduled from 9 to 6 and was directly managing 10 people who needed approval and feedback consistently. And let’s be honest—any pumping mother knows it’s hardly a break to strap yourself to a milk-sucking machine whose sound could haunt your nightmares.

Photo courtesy of Amber Fillerup.

Now, with my third, the circumstances are entirely different. I’m self-employed. I’ve built something I love—a consultancy, a website, a newsletter I’m proud of—and I’m slowly returning to it during naps and quiet evenings. I have more freedom, yes. But freedom without structure is still hard. There’s more flexibility this time. But even with more freedom, there’s still no guaranteed paycheck, no firm return date, no clear line between home and work. The choices feel no less complicated.

When my mind wanders to these thoughts, I look at numbers and statistics (do we see the overachieving Cartesian mind at play again?).

France is often praised for its approach to motherhood. We have paid leave, subsidized childcare, tax breaks and culturally normalized working mothers. In fact, 75% of French women aged 25–54 are employed, compared to about 70% in the U.S. That sounds good. But the data underneath tells a different story.

French women with two children earn, on average, 12% less than their childless peers in the private sector. That gap widens to 25% for women with three or more. In the public sector, it’s a little better—6% and 16%, respectively. Around 40% of women in France adjust their professional activity after giving birth—whether it’s cutting hours, stepping down, or stepping out entirely. And over the five years following childbirth, mothers in France earn 23% less than they did before. That figure climbs to 35% for women with only secondary education.

At the same time, France’s fertility rate has dropped to 1.68 children per woman—the lowest it’s been since World War II. The U.S. is at 1.6. I want to be clear that I stand firmly for the freedom of each woman's maternity choice—I believe every woman should have the right to contraception and abortion if need be. But I do think statistics like these offer insight into whether women today feel that motherhood is an enviable life. And right now, the overwhelming answer seems to be no.

(Sources: INSEE, Eurofound, IZA Institute of Labor Economics, Le Monde, AP News)

For me, maternity leave has never felt like time off. It’s felt like an emotional tightrope: between presence and productivity, between gratitude and guilt, between wanting to be fully with my child and wanting to prepare our future.

Not rushing back doesn’t mean falling behind.

This time, I’m trying to move slower. To believe that not rushing back doesn’t mean falling behind. That rebuilding with care is still progress. But it takes unlearning. And on some days, courage.

If you’ve been through this—or if you’re in the thick of it—I’d love to hear from you. What did your return look like? Did you feel ready or did you feel like you sacrificed a part of yourself along the way?

One final thought: I’ve noticed that in French culture, there’s not much room to voice how hard this all is. Even among my closest girlfriends, this topic tends to be brushed aside or quickly reframed. We rarely say out loud how disorienting and difficult returning to work after a baby can be—maybe because no one wants to sound like they’re complaining. But the truth is, naming the struggle doesn’t make us ungrateful. It just makes us honest. And that feels like a good place to begin.