How do they see me?

When care becomes invisible work

No one sees the quiet math behind every decision.
How much energy it takes to make everything look effortless.

There was a time I wanted to be everything, the capable one, the calm one, the woman who could carry it all.
Now I’m learning that everything was never the goal.

Sometimes I stare at my reflection and try to see myself as more than a list of roles.
Because when they see me, a mother, a woman, a partner, they see the surface.

There are mornings I wake up already tired.
The day hasn’t begun, and the list is already there. Invisible. Endless. Expected.

I am the keeper of things that go unnoticed:
the milk that never runs out,
the birthday remembered,
the soft landing when someone else falls apart.

I’m told I’m lucky.
And I am, for love, for family, for all that’s good.
But even blessings have weight.
They press against you until you almost disappear beneath them.

No one asks how much remembering it takes to keep a life from falling apart.
But I know the depth beneath it.
I know the storm I quiet each morning so everyone else can feel safe.

This isn’t a confession.
It’s a reminder:
that care is not small,
that what looks quiet can still be holy,
and that being seen begins with me.