THE QUIET RAGE OF INVISIBLE LABOUR
There are days I feel like I have run a marathon, but all I have done is exist, in a dozen different roles, behind a dozen quiet acts no one saw.
I have kept track of birthdays, scheduled the follow-up calls, reminded others of deadlines, softened harsh silences in meetings, asked the hard questions no one dared to voice, noticed who was hurting, made tea without being asked, and smiled when I wanted to disappear. All before noon.
No one told me that growing up as a “strong, caring woman” came with a lifetime subscription to invisible labor. Emotional. Mental. Relational. Organizational. It shows up in the gaps: in what goes unsaid but always gets done. The problem is, no one applauds the absence of mess. They just expect it.
And slowly, quietly, I became the one who holds everything together.
It took me years to realize this wasn’t just “me being responsible.” It was work. Unpaid, unseen, and expected. It was feminist labor performed without acknowledgment, sometimes even by feminist spaces that should’ve known better.
I have hosted workshops on equity while staying up the night before folding logistics into harmony. I have written reports for projects that would collapse if women like me didn’t quietly plug every leaking gap. I have designed inclusive strategies while managing the emotional crises of team members too burnt out to care: all while never being asked, “How are you really doing?”
This is how burnout creeps in, not in one loud bang, but through the steady erosion of self. It hides behind good intentions. It wears the face of kindness. And it leaves you wondering why you feel so hollow when you’re “just doing your part.”
But this invisible labour doesn’t just exist in workplaces and movement spaces. It begins and multiplies at home.
Globally, women perform over three-quarters of all unpaid care work, according to the International Labour Organization. In Asia and the Pacific, women spend up to four times more hours than men doing tasks like cooking, cleaning, caregiving, and emotional tending. This unpaid labour is estimated to contribute over $10 trillion to the global economy each year, yet it remains uncounted, unrecognised, and unvalued.
And sometimes, we carry it all until we almost disappear into the labour itself.
When I became a founder and executive director at a young age, I never imagined the layers of invisible weight it would bring. Not just strategy or operations, but holding space for grief and celebration, carrying the emotional weather of an entire team while navigating my own personal storms. When someone won an award, I cheered first. When someone felt unwell, I rearranged the week. When conflict brewed, I became the bridge, even when I was tired, even when I hadn’t eaten.
And I don’t complain. But some days, burnout hums so loudly in my body that I wonder if it’s become a part of me.
A dear friend once told me how her entire family, including her children, helped her prepare for a large feminist event. Everyone pitched in. The heart behind the work was enormous. And yet, all anyone noticed was a small logistical mishap. The critique was loud. The gratitude was silent.
Why is it so hard for people to see the labour that goes into building something with love?
Why can’t we hold space, not just for the outcome, but for the effort?
Like Radha, a 42-year-old teacher in Kathmandu, who told me: “I finish a full day of teaching, then rush home to cook, clean, check on my in-laws’ meds, and supervise homework. One night, I forgot to make pickles for my husband’s lunch. He was upset, and I remember thinking: I am doing ten people’s jobs, and my only mistake is one jar of achaar?”
Or Meera, a single mother and nonprofit worker in Delhi: “During Covid, I was working remotely, homeschooling my child, running the household, and trying to stay mentally stable. My male colleagues would ask, ‘Why are you slow in responding?’ I wanted to scream, ‘Because I am doing five unpaid jobs while you have help and a closed door.’”
Even in friendships, it shows up quietly.
Samira, a graphic designer in her thirties, shared: “I am the one who plans the group vacations, remembers birthdays, and checks in after breakups. When I was going through depression, no one noticed I had stopped reaching out. They just assumed I was busy. Because my labour was invisible, my absence was too.”
Stories like these are everywhere: whispered in kitchens, vented over late-night calls, passed like secret truths between women who have grown tired of being “grateful” for carrying too much.
I didn’t even know I was angry until I stopped moving.
There is a quiet rage in knowing that care is demanded but rarely reciprocated. That your ability to hold space becomes the very reason no one offers it to you. That if you don’t do it, no one will.
People are more comfortable with your generosity than your boundaries.
It’s exhausting to be the one who remembers.
But here’s what I am learning: rage is not always destructive. Sometimes, it’s diagnostic. A sign that something is deeply misaligned. That’s what we have normalised; this disproportionate, invisible work is not care. It’s exploitation wrapped in politeness.
And so, I am learning to stop.
To pause before saying “I’ll take care of it.”
To say “not today” without apology.
To let the silence stretch, even when it’s awkward.
To let the tea remain unmade.
I am learning that the world won’t fall apart if I am not the one holding it together. And if it does? Maybe it was never mine to carry in the first place.
We talk so much about building a better world. But the truth is, the world we dream of won’t be built only through strategy and vision; it will be built through redistribution. Of labour. Of care. Of attention. And that begins with naming what we have been made to do without thanks. And choosing, sometimes, not to do it.
Rest is not laziness. Refusal is not selfishness. Letting go is not failure.
It is a repair. It is rebellion. It is reclaiming what was always ours
