There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up on paper. It doesn’t clock in or out. It just exists.
It’s being the default parent.
If you’re not one, you don’t get it. You can love your kids. You can be involved. And still not understand what it’s like to be the one everything defaults to. The one who gets up first, keeps track of everything, and absorbs the fallout when anything gets missed.
It’s not just mornings. It’s remembering spirit day, packing the right lunch, tracking appointments, medications, permission slips, sports, school emails, dentist visits, and the fact that someone is outgrowing something right now.
It’s the mental load. It doesn’t shut off.
Even when you sit down, you’re not off. You’re running dinner, tomorrow, next week, summer, insurance, whether that cough is nothing or now your problem. You are the system. There is no backup.
And people still ask what needs to be done.
That part is wild.
Because the answer is: everything. All the time.
Also, stop acting like being present is the same as carrying it. It’s not. Showing up is baseline. Mowing the lawn once a week is not the same. Fixing something when it breaks is not the same.
Those are tasks. This is ownership. This is constant.
Statistically, this falls on women. That’s not an opinion. It’s a pattern. But there are men living this too. The point isn’t who has it worse. The point is that too many families are still running on one person carrying the invisible workload while everyone else thinks things are fine.
They’re not fine. They’re managed.
Poorly distributed labor isn’t a personality difference. It’s a problem.
Some of us don’t have a choice. Some of us are the default parent because we’re doing it alone.
If you’re not the default parent, stop helping. Start owning.
Don’t ask what needs to be done.
Figure it the fuck out.
🖤 Hag
P.S. If you’re the default parent, no – you’re not crazy. Promise.