I see it more clearly these days. Now you can name it. Not only do I live in it, I still go back there. Especially as a parent, when things get stuck. The difference is that now I’m standing still. I’m reflecting on it. I ask myself, do I have to carry it all? I still do that sometimes. But by default it’s not. Don’t be blind. Well, normally anyway.
I write to make the invisible visible. When I say out loud words that I have rarely heard, not only to others, but to myself as well. As everything is pulled to the edges, I look at myself as I hold onto the center and absorb what others don’t realize they need to carry. I’m not overreacting. I’m not asking for too much. I do work that connects lives.
I am the one who remembers dentist appointments, mufti days, allergy medicines, weather forecasts, birthdays, and swim bags. Or the person who keeps their emotional boat steady, calming a toddler (or an adult acting like one), calming tension between parents, biting their tongue to keep dinner from going off the rails, all while controlling the storms in their own hearts, guts, and heads.
This job has many names for me. Mental load, emotional labor, logistical labor, and especially narrative labor (the constant effort to explain ourselves, justify our choices, and make life meaningful to others). It’s a process that says, “It’s quick because you just do it.” Or, “Okay, I’ll figure it out,” or, “No one remembers, so I’ll make a list.”
But what has changed is that we now recognize it. I am no longer trying to prove that I can handle everything. I’ve learned that sometimes the silent question in my heart, “Why is it always me?”, is actually wisdom, not weakness. It’s a stop sign. To reset. To shift the pattern.
This is most evident in motherhood, but I know it exists everywhere. For caring for elderly parents. Supporting partners with chronic illnesses or disabilities. Blended families and complex coparenting. In friendships or at work, someone quietly holds emotional glue.
Without this commitment, I have seen so many people and systems quietly collapse. I also learned that doing it all all the time is expensive. That cost lives on in your body.
Lately, my body has often felt like the old board game “Operation,” except the buzzer keeps beeping and the battery is dying. There’s always a low-level fog in my head, accompanied by a sinking feeling of fatigue. It’s not always visible, but in the clenched jaw at 3 a.m., the racing thoughts, or the strange sudden overwhelm that never turns into tears.
I was neglecting my own needs. That’s because there was no room for them. Especially when the kids were little, we kept things light even when things fell apart. I was the strong person everyone relied on, even when I wanted someone else to carry the weight.
I’m trying to notice that urge now. To catch it in a moment. To remind myself, I am not a machine. Asking for help doesn’t make me weak. It makes me smarter.
If you think so too, you’re not alone.
This is for those of us who are managing our homes and trauma response. To children who are raising children living in two homes and two worlds. To those who are doing extra work to help their children thrive in a system not created for them. For those stuck in a meeting trying to help others understand something that should already be obvious. For those dealing with financial, emotional, and fallout.
And then there’s the judgment. Something that oozes out from the tone, the silence, the side comments. The type where you can feel the air. Suddenly you are no longer seen. you are valued.
Those who make unconventional caregiving choices often find themselves in the most difficult situations. Parents who are full-time housewives are not contributing. Adult children who cut back on work to care for their parents. A partner in the silent management of chronic illness. Parents in a blended family navigate the chaos.
I once read, “Judgment assumes superiority. Judgment lacks curiosity. It flattens life into a one-dimensional story and acts as if it knows the ending.” That’s exactly what it feels like.
I have carried that weight many times from the judgments of people who have not lived my reality. For a long time, my nervous system told me that it was dangerous not to care about other people’s opinions. Even when I knew the wisdom of the old adage, “Never accept criticism from someone you don’t ask for advice.”
That’s always ironic. Those who have the least are often quick to criticize how you have the most.
And this is my truth: I’m not going to apologize for being there for my kids while they still needed me. I don’t apologize for showing up for the people I love.
There’s a saying that goes, “Don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.” But most people don’t want shoes. They just want the right to judge from the sidelines. Or, as Brené Brown says, “I’m not interested in your feedback unless you’re getting your ass kicked in the arena.”
Because there is something often overlooked here. Most people don’t realize how dependent they are on invisible labor…until it stops.
You don’t have to worry about whether your PE gear is clean. Who will follow up with the lawyer and the school? How to diffuse tension and avoid meltdowns. Why doesn’t the refrigerator empty? Why doesn’t the calendar run smoothly?
But what about when I walk away? Objects fall through the cracks. The conversation goes sideways. The house may be quiet, but it’s not peaceful.
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about value. This work allows others to succeed, rest, and function. That’s because other people are responsible for that complexity.
Invisible labor holds everything together until it becomes impossible. I know this. Migraines, kidney stones, menstrual issues, these things brought me to my knees. My body was trying to protect itself. It’s a fair judgment. This job is not bottomless. It’s not free. And that’s not a given.
Many of us do this work quietly, without even giving it a name. Because when something is always expected, it starts to feel like it doesn’t matter.
But it’s important. That’s work. It’s worth watching not only for the moment of collapse, but also while it still holds its threads.
We are not invisible. We are not overdoing it. We are not weak in needing rest or recognition.
We are in the business of saving lives. That work is important. we matter. But boundaries are also important. No one will come to save us. And we cannot continue to save others from our own responsibilities.
Yes, there will be excuses. But a 16-year-old who won’t get out of bed to go to school unless there’s a clear diagnosis? It’s something they navigate, not something I carry. Let’s say it has real-world implications as well. How else does it grow? How else do we take responsibility? How else do they learn to stand on their own two feet?
So I’ll take a break today. You can see what I’m carrying. I value what others are. Ask where you can share the burden. I wonder what would change if we truly recognized the weight behind what seems effortless.
Because the most important work is not always the noisiest, but often the most essential.
And perhaps the first step won’t change everything. I’m aware of that. Name it. It starts from there.
