Motherland in Adland: Cate Anderson

Motherhood in advertising has long been an unspoken challenge – a career-defining crossroads where ambition is too often questioned, and support systems fall short. And while the industry has made progress in acknowledging the realities of working parents, tangible change is still slow, leaving many mothers to navigate the journey alone.

This edition of Motherland in Adland – the series founded by NERD’s Milana Karaica in partnership with LBB – spotlights Cate Anderson, senior creative at creative studio, Ourselves.

Starting out, Cate had assumed that if she wanted to have a family, her days in the industry would be numbered. That’s simply what her experience so far had taught her. When she did fall pregnant, some questionable advice led to her feeling worse than ever., and things didn’t get any easier during the second pregnancy. But a note from a former colleague ended up being her lifeline.

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If I’m lucky, I’ll have 10 years. 

That’s what I’d tell myself in my 20s, as I navigated my way through the early years of my career as a creative. 

Ten years. Twelve tops. 

Because I figured, if my life worked out the way I was hoping it would, by the time I hit my early 30s, I’d get pregnant and promptly be put out to pasture. 

It sounds ridiculous, but at that point, I had never really met senior female creatives with families. There were plenty of men with kids. They’d have photos on their desks and they’d talk about school fees around the coffee machine, but no one ever left to do school pick-ups. No one worked from home. 

So, 10 years it was. 

I loved my job and spent that decade throwing myself into it. I got better and got bigger jobs. Spent my days, evenings and weekends making work I loved, with people I loved working with. There are many, many things wrong with this industry, but as a 20-something living between my desk and the pub, I felt like I’d won at life.

As I approached my 30s and my presumed retirement got closer, I realised I wasn’t ready to give up this career I’d worked so hard for. Work was going well, we were making big, lovely ads, and it felt like things were falling into place. 

I started looking around to find female creatives with kids. There weren’t many, but they did exist, and it was talking to these brilliant women that gave me hope. But they all said the same thing. You have to work like you don’t have kids. 

I got pregnant. And the game had changed. 

My body and brain felt like they were on some loopy, exhausting ride, and yet there was no option but to turn up and pretend to be a functioning human. I slept on the train and, more than once, leaning against the toilet door at lunch. I figured ‘work like you don’t have kids’ started in utero. I went to the pub at lunch and nursed bottles of Becks Blue because that’s how you got face time with the ECD. I pitched and worked weekends, desperate not to let the team down. But the bigger I got, the further outside I felt. 

In the end, I worked until a week before my little boy arrived. I was freelancing at this point, so there was no maternity pay. Nine months later, I went back to work. 

It was hard. My brain felt fuzzy. I felt ancient compared to the young teams around me, and the guilt was off the hook. I took a job at a big agency who agreed to a four-day week. I felt pathetically grateful and then spent most of Friday at home on my emails. I had to leave at 4.45 pm to pick up my son, so I started coming in early to make up my hours, hating myself for being the first mum at drop off while I sat in a silent, empty creative department. I’d choose the seat closest to the door in meetings so I could sidle out and run to make nursery pick up. I cried a lot. 

Covid happened, and we all went home. My husband works for the NHS and was pulling long shifts in the hospital, so I was at home with the toddler. Team members were furloughed, but I was kept working. For two months, I looked after my kid in the day and did a full day's work in the evening and around naps. I remember presenting work to clients and having to jump up and chase my son down the street after he let himself out. We all cried a lot. 

But, work like you don’t have kids.

I got pregnant again during lockdown and was unceremoniously made redundant in the next wave of cutbacks. It was made clear to me that the two things were unrelated. Who knows. 

But it proved that 20-year-old me had been right. It was creative or kids. I couldn’t do both. In between feeding and nappies and endless night scrolling, I wondered what I’d do next. I googled floristry courses. 

It was at the end of maternity leave with my second son that Steven Bennett-Day got in touch and asked if I fancied joining Ourselves, the small, independent creative studio he’d set up with Aaron Howard. SBD and I had worked together years before, and he ranked pretty high in my list of Excellent Humans. They’d founded Ourselves to make good work with good people. There was no room for ego or competition. Oh, he added, most of us have kids, so we work remotely, and you can do your hours when it works best for you. I was sold.

Four years (and another little boy) later, I’m still here. 

Ourselves has shown me, and the clients and businesses we work with, that there is a genuine alternative to the traditional agency model.

Our family lives are woven into our workflow. We talk about our kids in status. And since working here, I’ve never missed a school show or sports day. You don’t need to book it months in advance or have it approved. We just make it happen. There’s a trust, camaraderie and genuine sense of shared purpose I’ve never found before. 

And we’re making brilliant work. Work I didn’t think I’d have any business making even five years ago. Work that’s great – not in spite of our messy, chaotic, human lives, but that’s better because of them. 

It’s not always easy. There are plenty of late nights and Sunday evening logins. There are still days when I feel like I’m not doing any of my roles well. 

But I no longer work like I don’t have kids.