I don’t know when it happened exactly. Somewhere between the fourth kid and the tenth year of running a business and the hundredth time I mentally rearranged the week’s schedule before my feet even hit the floor in the morning. At some point, the mental load stopped being something I managed and started being something I just lived inside of. Like background noise that never fully turns off.
If you don’t know what the mental load is, let me paint you a picture. It’s not the actual doing of the things. It’s the knowing of all the things. It’s lying awake at 11pm remembering that somebody needs new cleats and the dentist needs to be called and there’s a permission slip somewhere on the counter and you’re pretty sure the dog is out of food. Nobody asked you to remember any of that. You just do. Because if you don’t, nobody will.
And here’s what nobody really talks about — it gets heavier in your late 30s. I don’t know if it’s because life has genuinely gotten more complicated by then, or because you’ve been carrying it so long that the weight finally starts to register, or both. But there’s something about this particular season that makes the invisible labor feel less invisible and a lot more exhausting. You’re managing kids who actually have full schedules now. You’re navigating your own career and your own identity. You’re trying to show up in your marriage and your friendships and for yourself, all at the same time. And most days you’re doing it on not enough sleep and a lukewarm cup of coffee you reheated three times.
Mike is genuinely a good partner. I want to be really clear about that. But for a long time, his go-to response when I’d get overwhelmed was some version of “just tell me what you need me to do.” And I know he meant it. I know it came from a good place. But I cannot tell you how many times I wanted to scream, because that is not how this works. When you ask me to tell you what to do, you’ve just added one more thing to my list. Now I have to inventory everything in my head, figure out what to delegate, explain it in enough detail that it actually gets done right, and follow up to make sure it happened. That is not help. That is project management. And I’m already the project manager of this entire family.
The other impossible part is trying to hand off mental load to someone who genuinely doesn’t have the same context you do. Mike doesn’t know that we’re almost out of the kids’ shampoo or that one of the boys mentioned something at dinner last week that I’ve been quietly keeping an eye on, or that I already rescheduled that appointment twice and can’t do it again. The details live in my head and only my head, and transferring them feels like trying to download ten years of information in real time while also making dinner.
I don’t have this figured out. Not even close. But what I’ve been working on — really working on — is two things. The first is just being more aware of how it makes me feel instead of pushing through it like it’s not happening. The second is communicating more with Mike, not just about tasks, but about what’s actually going on in my head. And what I’ve found, maybe surprisingly, is that sometimes him just knowing about something takes the edge off. Not him fixing it. Not him taking it over. Just him knowing. Like I’m not the only one holding it anymore, even if I’m still the one doing most of the holding.
It’s not a perfect system. Some days it still feels like too much and I handle it with grace and some days I handle it by stress-eating chips at 9pm after everyone’s in bed. But I think the fact that we’re talking about it more honestly than we ever have before is something. It’s not a solution but it’s a start. And maybe that’s where all of this has to begin — with someone finally saying, out loud, this is heavy and I need you to at least understand that, even if you can’t carry it for me.
If you’re in the thick of it right now, I just want you to know — what you’re doing is not small. The invisible work is real work. The mental load is a real load. And you are not dramatic for feeling the weight of it. You’re just honest. And honestly? That’s the bravest thing.