The weight you carry isn’t invisible. It’s just unspoken.
Not all warriors wear armor.
Some wear under-eye concealer, lipstick and mascara.
Some don’t march into battle — they walk into homes, offices, hospitals, classrooms, kitchens.
But make no mistake:
There are women who fight every single day.
Not for glory.
But to keep everything from falling apart.
We are not the ones with safety nets.
We are the net.
We don’t have the luxury of breaking down.
Because if we fall — it all falls.
Because everything is threaded through us:
The business. The salaries. The kids. The house. The mental log of what’s running low — in the fridge, in the medicine cabinet, in our own bodies.
You think about stopping, about resting —
and then immediately think, But who will…?
Who will respond to the client email?
Who will pack the snacks?
Who will pay for the daycare?
Who will remember the dentist appointment?
Who will pick up the pieces while you lie in bed?
And so, you don’t.
You rally.
Again.
You push through fevers.
Through periods that feel like surgeries.
Through grief, through migraines, through heartbreak —
because the world you hold doesn’t have a substitute caretaker.
You become skilled at looking fine.
You say “just tired” so often, it becomes your personality.
You apologise for the small signs that you’re human — a forgotten deadline, a snapped sentence, a sigh too loud.
And the moment you break the illusion —
the moment you show you’re not invincible —
the world around you gets nervous.
Impatient.
Dismissive.
“Why are you being so sensitive?”
“Everyone’s stressed.”
“Don’t make a big deal.”
They want your output.
Not your overwhelm.
Because your competence has become your trap.
You are the machine.
And machines don’t get burnout — they get replaced.
So what does it look like when you can’t afford to crash?
It looks like a woman performing strength
on top of exhaustion
on top of silence
on top of systems she built
so no one else would have to think.
It looks like rage you swallow.
It looks like numbness in the middle of a celebration.
It looks like showing up when no one shows up for you.
And it looks like this:
A woman who has kept everything running
whispering quietly to herself at night:
“I can’t do this much longer.”
But at desk early am again!
Ask yourself this tonight:
What would it look like to carry strength with softness?
To build a life that doesn’t just run,
but one that lets you breathe, too?
Start there.…
