Motherhood Without Reciprocity: When the Giver Has Nowhere to Rest

There is a kind of mothering that does not clock off. You cook extra plates because someone might pass through. You answer the late night call because a cousin needs advice. You organise school runs, church rotas, remittances, birthday money, hospital visits, funeral committees, and the group chat that never sleeps. You are the person everyone calls when the plan falls apart, and the person no one thinks to call when you fall apart.

What happens when you are in everyone’s safe place but have none for yourself?

In many Caribbean and African families, mothering is communal by design. Aunties, grandmothers, older sisters, godmothers and neighbours stand in for one another because this is how the village survives. It is beautiful. It is also where many women disappear.

The script is clear. Be dependable. Do not complain. Be strong. Work twice as hard. Pride yourself on carrying it all. If you need help, say a prayer and keep moving.

Over time, this becomes identity. If you are not giving, who are you?

Unreciprocated care has a price. It looks like: 

• Emotional numbness, because there is no space to process your own life. 
• Resentment that turns inward, because anger feels forbidden. 
• Body alarms, headaches, poor sleep, chest tightness, stomach knots that you explain away.
• Invisible grief, for the dreams you deferred to hold everyone else together. 
• Silence, because every time you tried to name the weight, someone said, “You’re strong. You’ll manage.”

This is not a failure of character. It is a system that runs on your labour and calls it love.

Boundaries often clash with how we were raised. Respect for elders, duty to family, fear of being called selfish, the pressure to model perfection for the children, the unspoken rule that Black women must never drop the ball. Many of us learned that rest is a reward, not a right, and that asking for help is a confession of weakness.

If your worth has been measured by usefulness, stepping back can feel like disappearing.

A boundary is not rejection of culture. It is the maintenance of the village. The village fails when its carriers collapse. A healthier script sounds like this: 

• Care is shared, not hoarded. 
• Help is a rotation, not a one-way street. 
• Rest is a responsibility, not a nice-to-have.
• Saying no preserves the person who says yes tomorrow.

These are steps I offer mothers who carry entire families and communities. Take what serves you, adapt the language to your context, and move at your pace.

List every role you currently hold for others. Name the hours, energy, and money each one takes. As you look at the list, ask: which roles are mine by agreement, which did I inherit by silence, which can be shared or released.

Create three circles: Always, Sometimes, Not now. 

• Always: non-negotiables that align with your values and capacity.
• Sometimes: help you offer when you are resourced. 
• Not now: tasks you no longer carry. 
• Put names next to tasks you will invite in to share the load.

Identify three to five people who can also pour into you. Be explicit. 

• “I can do the Tuesday pick up if you can cover Thursdays for the next month.”
• “I can host Sunday lunch once a month. The other Sundays are potluck or yours.”
• “I can contribute to the funeral collection. I cannot coordinate the catering this time.”

Choose one protected hour a week and one protected day a month. Add it to the family calendar. Treat it like a medical appointment. During that time, rest, walk, read, sleep, write, pray, or sit in silence. No justification required.

Boundary language works best when it is clear and kind. 

• “I love you. I do not have capacity for that this week.”
• “I can do A or B, not both. Which is most urgent for you.”
• “I am not the best person for this. Try X or Y.”
• “I need to step back from coordinating. I will support in a smaller way.”

Choose three simple actions for the days you are at the edge. 

• Text one trusted person: “Today is heavy. Please check in later.”
• Take ten slow breaths, then ten more. Step outside for fifteen minutes, move your body, drink water, eat something nourishing.
• If the symptoms in your body persist, speak to your GP. Your health matters.

This one is important for ongoing wellbeing.

Short daily practices restore identity when life feels consumed by duty. 

• Morning check-in: How am I, what do I need, what can wait.
• A five-minute journal to name one boundary kept and one gratitude for yourself. 
• A weekly activity that belongs only to you, music, dance, prayer, art, a class, a quiet coffee.

If you love a woman who holds many people, become part of her rest. 

• Stop praising only what she carries. Praise what she releases. 
• Ask, “What can I own this month so you can breathe.”
• When she says no, treat it as wisdom, not defiance. 
• Share logistics. Do not outsource emotional labour to the one who already does most of it.
• Build systems that do not rely on her as the safety net.

Start small. Choose one thing to put down this week. Tell one person you trust that you are practising a new way of caring. Book one hour that belongs only to you. Remember, your softness is not a weakness, it is a sign that you are human.

This article draws on SisDr’s work as a coach, psychotherapist, and thought partner to leaders navigating complexity in professional and cultural contexts. Her practice creates space for Black and culturally diverse professionals to lead without the weight of silence.

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