If I Were a Chef, You’d Applaud My Groceries: The Invisible Labour of Care

There is a grief that comes not from being actively harmed, but from being quietly, repeatedly unseen.  Repeatedly pushed away once a benefit has been obtained.

A grief that builds over time, in the slow erosion of self that happens when you show up again and again—with patience, with presence—only to be judged for the very acts that hold others up.

The Invisible Labour of Care and Balance

A reflection on the unseen architecture of care, the loneliness of quiet commitments, and the persistent choice to build bridges, even when no one notices.

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For over thirty years—though not all in the same season—I have walked alongside siblings, parents, children, friends, colleagues, neighbours, and members of community.
I have anticipated needs, smoothed transitions, picked up pieces before they could shatter.

                 Image by Joshua Woroniecki from Pixabay

At times, survival patterns like anxious attachment or fawning wove themselves through my actions.
But even then, there was choice.
There was understanding.

I do not offer care to receive something back.
I offer it to widen perspective, to build bridges between my own world and the worlds of others, and to contribute, however quietly, to the greater whole.
Each act, however small, offered as a way of tending the energetic balance of living.

My parenting has been shaped by the same ethic:
Meet people where they are, so they can find their strength through doing and seeing and experiencing delight in themselves, through the lens of 'yes' — not through fear or 'no'.

Yet even in this quiet work, I have been called overbearing or overinformative.

I have seen the looks.

The ones from those who cannot see the threshold another stands upon.
The ones from those who mistake scaffolding for control.
The ones from people who have leaned on my "extra" when it served them, but flinched or judged when it was offered to someone else.

If I were a gourmet chef, no one would scoff at the time, the effort, the preparation behind every meal. Besides a comment or opinion, no one would throw away the groceries or extra spices in the pantry.  And there would still be a thank you of some sort after every meal. Occasionally someone will choose to sit nearby to chat, while that chef was going through all their steps.
But because my work is relational, emotional, neurodivergent, and maternal—it is diminished as "too much." and "unnecessary". There is little in the form of thank you, and no one looking to just sit and chat nearby.

“I don’t offer care to control. I offer care to steady the places where others might otherwise fall.”

What they don’t see is this:
I don’t act to control.
I scaffold.
I steady.
I offer anchoring at the points where others might otherwise slip through.

Falling is one thing. But crashing and losing capacity is totally another.

I do not wish to be enmeshed.
I want to be useful.

And I offer it without resentment.

Because I made a commitment:
To parent with integrity.
To break the cycles that teach children they must either be abandoned or abandon themselves.
To leave a legacy, not of perfection, but of presence.

And my commitment extended to my daily interactions with others, too:
To consider that most people are doing the best they can.
To act without regret, offering care and consideration even in the smallest exchanges.
To move through the world with a sense of integrity—living each day as if it might be the last, making sure that my presence left no harm, and wherever possible, left a trace of kindness instead.

But what I did not know, when I began this work,
was how lonely it would feel.
How often I would build tables I was not invited to sit at.
How often I would offer a bridge, and watch others walk across without once looking back. And I can be both happy for someone's success and growth while also sad or wistful that there was no wave or smile as they moved.

“Still, I choose to build. Not because it is easy. But because it is right.”

Still, I choose to offer.
Still, I choose to build.

Not because it is easy.
Not because it is always rewarding.
But because it is right.

And even now, if you were to truly see the labour behind my love,
you might understand why it sometimes looks so exhausting.

Because it is.

And it deserves more than judgment.
It deserves a place at the table.

And at this point, and for so long,
I have been sitting at that table alone.

If this piece finds a home inside your own story, you’re welcome to share it, carry it with you for a time or write a comment. Sometimes the simple act of being seen—and seeing—is its own form of healing. At other times it is the processing, both internal and external that helps us connect with our trigger point, and release.