Let Me Rest Without the World Falling Apart, Please and Thank You

Somewhere between meal planning, bill chasing, remembering who’s out of deodorant, and who needed a lunch packed with “not gross snacks,” I realized something: healing feels like a luxury I can’t afford most days.

Which is absurd, right? I mean, after surviving breast cancer, working through the emotional sludge left behind by growing up in the 80’s, and holding up an entire fucking household with a half-smile and an even less functioning body – I should be able to collapse gently onto a bed of soft things without guilt. Right?

Instead, I keep going.
Because I’m the one who can AND who always has.

I have many titles these days. I’m the fixer. The household scheduler. The emotional triage nurse. The breadwinner AND the backup generator. The “strong” and capable one. The one who knows the Wi-Fi password, the insurance deductible, and which daughter is quietly spiraling even though they say they’re “fine”.

And underneath all that? There’s still the unpaid, invisible job that’s killing us all slowly: emotional labor.

Let’s name it for what it is.

Women (especially moms, especially daughters of past trauma, and especially those of us who fall into both camps) are doing invisible work 24/7. We are managing everyone else’s emotions and anticipating physical and emotional needs. We are constantly translating vague “I’m fine” statements into actual human context, AND proposing solutions. We are (hopefully) remembering to buy more toothpaste before it runs out and keeping an eye on the q-tip levels. And we know what time the dog needs to go out to avoid a puddle on the floor and which child needs therapy (even if they don’t know it yet).

This isn’t just a “me thing.” It’s a real thing. Proven, studied, and exhaustively lived:

• Harvard Business Review: “Research: When Juggling Work and Family, Women Offer More Emotional Support Than Men”
• NPR: “Changing the gender imbalance in housework may start with how we understand time”
• Harper’s Bazaar: “Women Aren’t Nags — We’re Just Fed Up”

So imagine trying to recover from a major surgery – body swollen, energy drained, brain fog thick enough to lose your own car keys in your hand – and still being the only one who knows where the spare light bulbs are and why your teenage daughter slammed the door (again).

Now add job hunting to that mix. Because while I was trying to heal (and healing from DIEP is a 6-9 month process!) I was also fielding recruiter calls, polishing resumes, remembering to write thank-you notes, recalculating household budgets, updating LinkedIn, and still holding down the coveted role of being the emotional CEO of this entire damn family.

Do you know what really supports healing? Reducing stress. Rest. My inner cynic just laughed at those things even in a conceptual form.

And let me say this loud for the people in the back before fingers start to get pointed: I married the most helpful human on earth. My husband is steady, kind, and has never once made me feel like I’m too much, even when I am a full on disaster with surgical drains, a ton of bandages, and rage tears because walking to the bathroom ia hard. He offers help freely and generously – folding laundry, ordering dinner, doing school runs without being asked – and still, I struggle to take the help. Societal conditional is quite the bitch.

Honestly, somewhere deep in the muscle memory of my life thus far, I learned that help is largely unreliable. That needing something makes you a burden, right? I learned that women like me – raised in the generation of unmet needs and VERY hard-earned independence – aren’t allowed to lean too hard or we risk falling completely.

But I’m trying to unlearn that. It’s super fucking hard. But here we are…

But I’ve got two daughters watching me and they are watching how I work, love, burn out, and recover. And these two notice if I make space for myself the way I do for everyone else. And they are watching whether I choose softness without apology, and whether I model strength with boundaries (not martyrdom).

I also want to speak to the ones like me – I know there are many of us – the quiet warriors, the ones drowning while smiling in the school pickup line, the ones leading meetings while trying not to scream or cry in the car after, and definitely the ones who are tired of being the rock. Rocks erode eventually ya know.

I see you. And I see you, because I AM you.

And if no one has said it lately: you deserve rest. Not earned rest – or the type of rest that you plan around a PTO day and errands that need to be done either. Fuck that noise.

You deserve real rest NOW. Healing in any shape or form is not something we should have to negotiate for, delay, or earn in gold stars or tasks checked off as complete.

I don’t want to be the “strong one” today. And you don’t have to either. Let’s be the healing one. The soft one. The held one. Who’s with me?

And maybe – just maybe – that’s enough to keep going. And if not? There’s always DoorDash and an unapologetically locked bathroom door if I need to scream at the sky (or just not have to make a decision for a minute).

Healing isn’t a solo sprint. If you’re running this race too, drop a comment, share some love, or pass this post along. We need more soft, real conversations.