How do they see me? A Woman? A Mother?

Unseen labor, swallowed resentment, and the myth of equality at home.

There’s this thing I’ve been carrying — not just in my body, but in my bones. It’s the weight of being everything, all the time. Even when I’m not supposed to be.

For a while, I wasn’t working. Then I started teaching part-time — just three days a week — hoping it would shift something. Hoping I’d finally feel like I was contributing and building something for myself.

Around the same time, my husband became unemployed. So now we’re both home. But somehow, I’m still the one carrying the load.

Take the laundry.

I actually don’t mind folding it. It’s one of the only tasks where I can just be — put something on in the background and have a little quiet time. But it requires space — mental, physical, emotional — that I rarely get.

I can’t fold when a soccer game is on. I can’t fold while I’m doing bedtime alone five nights a week. I can’t fold while the girls are on me like body heat-seeking missiles.

So yeah — the clean clothes sat there, piled up for weeks.

And when my husband couldn’t find a clean shirt? He got upset. As if it never occurred to him to fold them himself.

That’s what makes me mad. Not the laundry. Not the mess. But the way he saw it piling up, knew it needed to be done — and just waited for me to get to it.

And I want to be clear: I love my husband. He’s present. He helps. But there’s no real division. Just assumptions.

He gets to watch his game. Tend to his garden. Eat his snack. Meanwhile, I have to negotiate for alone time — and even then, I feel like I’m stealing it.

At night, I sleep with the girls. Every week, Monday through Friday. They’re body contact babies — the kind where if you move, they wake. So after 8 p.m., I’m locked in. No movement. No freedom. No break.

He takes weekend nights — if he’s in a good mood. If nothing else is going on.

I’ll check the camera sometimes, and he’s in the living room till midnight. Watching TV. Eating. Unbothered. I can’t remember the last time I had a night like that.

So no — this isn’t just about laundry. It’s about time. And who gets to use it freely.

Even when we were both home — unemployed or working part-time — I was still the one cooking, cleaning, organizing, and managing the house.

He told me once that I’m just “better” at it. But being good at something doesn’t mean I want to do it forever.

It doesn’t mean I don’t need help. Or rest. Or time to build something of my own.

I’m not just a woman who works. I’m a mother. I’m a builder. I’m a partner. But I’m also a person who needs support — not praise. Not admiration. Just actual support.

Because I’m doing too much. And I’m not the only one.