Last week, my younger son had his school concert. In the days leading up to the event, he confided in me at bedtime about his overwhelming fear of performing. His reasons shifted frequently. Although he loves to sing and dance, he told me he only wanted to perform for me. Then he expressed worries about the heat in the auditorium, recalling last year’s sweltering experience. Next, he worried that his classmates wouldn’t remember their parts and would ruin everything.
It was clear he was grappling with a severe case of stage fright, which is completely normal for his age. However, it reached a point where I doubted he would step on stage at all. On the day of the concert, he fluctuated between excitement and refusal to leave the house.
When my partner, Alex, got home that evening, he enthusiastically ran to my son, exclaiming, “I can’t wait for the show tonight!” I shot him a look that clearly said, “Seriously?” and quickly pulled him aside to explain that discussing the concert wasn’t the best idea at that moment.
“Don’t you realize he’s been stressing about this show for weeks?” I asked. But Alex had no idea; our son hadn’t mentioned a word to him. It wasn’t because they lacked closeness. In theory, he should be the one our son confides in about his deepest feelings. Alex is incredibly loving and open, yet my sons rarely turn to him for the more challenging emotional conversations.
Instead, that role has consistently fallen to me. While I appreciate the trust my kids place in me to share their thoughts, it can be quite overwhelming. I know that not all children open up so freely, and I feel fortunate that mine do. As they grow and face more complex and daunting challenges, I want them to feel safe sharing their fears and aspirations.
Yet, the emotional weight that comes with this role can be heavy. I’ve lost count of the sleepless nights I’ve spent fretting over my children’s emotional well-being. Alex, too, has his own worries, but they don’t usually revolve around the latest heartfelt confession from our kids.
I know I’m not alone in this experience. The concept of “emotional labor” often rests heavily on a mother’s shoulders. As if we don’t have enough on our plates, we also become the family therapist. It’s a significant burden to carry.
We don’t just listen to our children’s emotions; we help them navigate through life decisions that grow increasingly complicated as they mature. Although our children are ultimately responsible for their choices, we often feel the repercussions of those decisions too.
I understand that this is part of being a parent, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. However, I wish this emotional workload could be more evenly distributed. Alex is willing to share some of this emotional labor, especially after I highlighted the imbalance recently. Despite this, the role still seems to land primarily on my shoulders. And since my children are accustomed to turning to me for their deepest confessions, I doubt this dynamic will change anytime soon.
Perhaps instead of reducing my role as the family therapist, I should seek relief from the other “invisible labor” I undertake. However, those responsibilities are well established too. It’s a bit overwhelming.
I adore my kids, and I cherish the fact that they feel comfortable enough to share their thoughts and feelings with me. But it’s important to acknowledge that this responsibility is challenging. It adds to my overall family workload, and sometimes I feel like I might burst under the weight of all the emotions, fears, and concerns I carry for my children (and Alex, but that’s a different story).
If you find yourself in a similar role as the family counselor, know that you’re not alone. We can love our kids and appreciate the roles we play in their lives while also admitting, “This is tough, and I need a break.” Perhaps what we truly need is a family therapist of our own—someone who sits with us in our moments of worry, reassures us that everything will be okay, and helps us find peace.
This article was originally published on May 21, 2019.
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In summary, while being the emotional anchor for our families can be rewarding, it’s essential to recognize the inherent challenges. Balancing the roles of nurturer and counselor requires support, and it’s okay to ask for help along the way.
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