“Now you’re going to play with your friends, mom is going to work and in a few hours we’ll meet again,” I repeated to my 15-month-old son, with a look like he really understood that today we wouldn’t be taking our usual morning walk, but would instead be meeting his friends and new caregivers at daycare. I had read about how to behave during the first days of daycare, so that he could settle in more easily. One of the tips was not to disappear, but to openly tell him that I was leaving.

The sentence was easy enough to remember, but much harder to say when directed at such a small child. With that said, when I arrived at the daycare, everything I had in mind vanished. He wouldn’t leave my arms, and he refused to stay. My heart broke. I tried to smile and make him feel safe, even though I was shaking inside. I handed him to his new caregiver, the door closed, and behind it I could still hear his cries.

When the door closed, I put on my glasses and started crying too. I knew it was necessary to start daycare because my partner and I had to work, but I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to trust someone else with his care. And above all, I wasn’t ready to face the guilt that had been weighing on me long before this first day came. I was burdened by the guilt of wanting and needing to work.

This guilt began when I started looking for the right daycare for him. I asked every parent I knew, hoping they would share their experiences and suggest places where I could send my son. I never imagined that this process would be an even harder decision than many others I’ve made in my life.

Looking for a daycare

I started looking for a daycare centre in mid-July this year, so that my son could start in September. The pictures of these nurseries on social media gave the impression of happy children, laughing and playing in green yards. And yes, I emphasize the yard part, because for us as parents, this was one of my main conditions for a daycare center. I decided to meet with the directors of one daycare, which, in my mind, I had colorfully imagined with smiling children. It was located in a neighborhood near my work and, at first glance, it seemed like an ideal place. 

The daycare manager welcomed us and, without hesitation, told us the price, around 200 euros. It had three floors, and I, naively, thought they were all dedicated to children. But no. Only the first floor, with four rooms, served as a daycare. The other floors were used by other private companies, which had completely different functions. When we went inside, my expression changed instantly. The room where 12 children, from 9 months to two years old, were staying was a 4-by-4 space that was dark and had no natural light, with visible mold on the walls. I was shocked. It was my first time visiting a private nursery, and neither I nor my partner could hide our disappointment.

I asked her about the meals. They told me I couldn’t see the kitchen because it was “under renovation.” I asked about the vaccination records — whether all the children were vaccinated. The manager avoided answering, but I was able to read between the lines.

As soon as I left that daycare, I realized that deciding where to send my son would be an extremely difficult process.

The next day, we visited another daycare, which seemed better than the first and had been recommended to me by several parents. I liked this daycare’s idea of letting children explore freely without imposition, an approach that seemed very healthy to me. This daycare also had an active presence on social media, where the photos of the spaces appeared large and bright. The payment ranged from 200 euros if the child was placed in a larger group of 12 children and two educators, or 300 euros for a smaller group of only five children and one educator.

When we arrived, we saw that the daycare was located on the first floor of a residential building, in one of the most populated neighborhoods of the capital. The manager spoke to us at length about their philosophy, the importance of children spending as much time as possible in the yard, and the freedom given to play. At that point, she had convinced me. The interior of the daycare also left a positive impression — although it was an apartment, it looked clean and tidy.

But what I was most eager to see was the yard. The manager had repeatedly emphasized it as one of the daycare’s main assets. When she showed us, I realized that the “yard” was actually an improvised apartment terrace covered with sand. We didn’t like this option either. We live in an apartment ourselves, and at least for part of the day, when our son is at daycare, we wanted him to have the opportunity to play in a real garden.

Then I was recommended another daycare. This time, I didn’t rely too much on the social media photos, because I already knew that the reality of the daycare could disappoint me. I liked the educator immediately — she was calm, loving and my son hugged her without hesitation. The price was again around 200 euros. There were many toys, but the space felt tight for all the children, especially for my son’s peers. What ultimately made me decide against it were the stairs. There were several internal stairs, and as a mother who knows how active her child is, they caused me a lot of anxiety.

And so, I continued going from one daycare to another until a friend told me, “You will find something you don’t like in each one. Private daycares are mostly similar; only the walls are different. Choose one that is either close to work or close to home.” Having visited a few by that point, I knew he was right. So, I chose one that served home-cooked food to the children, had a large yard, and was close to my apartment.

During my search for a daycare, I also came across some well-known private nurseries in the capital, where prices ranged from 300 to 450 euros, but there were no spaces left for my son’s age group. This surprised me, as these prices were high for the standard of living in Kosovo — where, according to the Kosovo Agency of Statistics (KAS), the average gross salary in 2024 was 639 euros. Ironically, these nurseries continue to be full of children, which indicates high demand.

A colleague who sends her daughter to one of these popular daycare centers told me that her daughter had been on the waiting list since September last year and only managed to enroll this year. According to the Ministry of Education, Science and Technology (MEST), there are a total of 174 licensed private preschool institutions, 90 of which are in Prishtina alone.

This high demand for places in private daycare centers, despite the high prices, highlights the urgent need for public daycare centers. There are a total of 63 public daycare centers throughout Kosovo, the most recent of which was recently opened in Fushë Kosovë. After winning the 2021 elections, in its governing program Vetëvendosje (VV) promised to open 160 new daycare centers in cooperation with municipalities. Five years later, this number is still far from being realized. According to MEST, in March 2024, only four nurseries had been built, five had been adapted, and about 30 others were in the process of adaptation or construction.

The price in public daycare centers is around 50 euros per month, but the capacities of these centers do not even meet the minimum requirements for registering children. As a result, private daycare centers remain the only option for working women, while many rely on family members or even nannies for childcare.

Lack of institutional support adds to the pressure on mothers

The shortage of public daycare centers, combined with the high prices from private ones, means that childcare often falls primarily on women, making it even more difficult for them to participate in the labor market. When the state does not provide sufficient support for childcare, women are forced to choose between pursuing a career and caring for their family. In countries like Denmark and Sweden, each child, as soon as they turn one, has a guaranteed place in a public daycare center with a modest monthly fee, allowing the mother to return to work without worrying about her child’s safety.

But when state infrastructure is lacking, as is the case in Kosovo, women’s participation in the labor market depends mainly on their financial resources. Today, at the national level, less than 20% of women are employed. This figure is not just a statistic; it reflects the reality of many women who, in the absence of adequate infrastructure, are forced to choose between a career and caring for their children at home.

Meanwhile, those who try to do both often carry a sense of guilt, as I did. I felt guilty for wanting to work. I felt guilty that work made me feel fulfilled. I felt guilty that being a mother alone was not enough. I felt guilty because I knew that to be a good mother, I needed more than that: to be a professional, to not set aside my ambitions, to not forget who I am. Because, at the end of the day, I want my son to grow up seeing a happy mother — and that cannot be achieved by denying parts of oneself.

I don’t judge anyone who chooses to raise their children while staying at home; on the contrary, I congratulate them. Even as a new mother, I know that being a mother and taking care of the household is a constant task, full of responsibility, that women are often undervalued for. But for me, working outside the home is a necessity — not only financially, but also for my personal fulfillment. And despite this, I still feel guilty.

But I know I am not alone. A scientific paper published in 2024 by researchers Yulee Hairina and Nurul Hartini shows that the phenomenon known as “mom guilt,” is widespread among women in different countries, including those where the state provides support for childcare. From Sweden to the United States, from Britain to China, studies show that working mothers feel constant pressure to balance professional and family life. Guilt manifests in various ways: from stress and feelings of failure, and attempts at compensatinating for this by caring and spending more time with children.

This feeling of guilt becomes even more intense in the context of Kosovo, where the state system offers little support, while the private market provides limited-quality childcare options. Yet I see that I am not alone — many women face the same pressure, trying to balance their personal and professional lives.

This feeling of guilt is not purely personal, but collective, and the lack of support from the state plays an important role in it.

Feature Image: Dina Hajrullahu / K2.0

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