The Motherload of Emotional Regulation (And Why It’s Breaking Us)

Because someone has to stay calm. And apparently, it’s you.

You’ve heard of the mental load—endless logistics, admin, and life juggling that somehow became your job. But underneath that? There’s a deeper, quieter labour holding everything together.

It’s the work no one sees.

No one thanks you for.

And no one realises you’re doing.

Until you stop.

It’s the work of being the emotional regulator. The calm in everyone else’s storm. The peacekeeper. The defuser. The one who knows—intuitively, constantly—how to manage the moods of the entire household before they explode.

And if you’re parenting (and homeschooling) neurodivergent kids? That load multiplies.

This isn’t just an emotional reality. it’s the emotional scaffolding that keeps everything from collapsing. It’s care work, yes—but often performed silently, constantly, and without reprieve. It's our job, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn't be recognised, shared, or supported.

The Unseen Role: Emotional Regulator-in-Chief

Mental load is often visible. On your calendar, in the to-do lists, in the never ending tabs open in your brain. You can point to the doctor's appointment you booked, the hat you remembered to pack, the dinner you planned while also writing an email.

But emotional regulation? That’s a whole other beast. It doesn’t show up in your planner. It shows up in how you anticipate meltdowns before they begin, how you pre-empt sibling fights with snack timing and sensory tools, how you de-escalate a screaming match while staying perfectly still inside.

It’s not remembering things.

It’s absorbing feelings.

It’s not checking off tasks.

It’s holding space, defusing tension, swallowing your own frustration so things don’t fall apart.

You’re not just doing the thinking.

You’re doing the feeling for everyone else, too.

And unlike packing a lunch or buying birthday presents, emotional regulation has no clear start or finish.

It’s constant. It’s ambient. It’s exhausting.

Everyone loves to talk about the mental load. Who’s making the appointments, buying the birthday gifts, remembering which kid refuses to wear the blue socks because they’re “too loud” (it’s a thing). And yes, it's huge. But what no one is really talking about—at least not enough—is the emotional regulation load. The role of the person who keeps the whole family emotionally upright. The human buffer zone. The sponge. The thermostat. In homes with neurodivergent kids, this job isn’t just some kind of a side hustle. It’s a 24/7 unpaid position.

It requires the emotional range of a therapist, the calm of a Buddhist monk, and the stamina of a Navy SEAL.

And when you’re homeschooling? Ha. Strap in. You're not just catching emotional fallout, you're pre-empting it like a crisis negotiator with a ticking clock. You're the bomb defuser of the household, tiptoeing through emotional tripwires, cutting the right wire at the right time, always under pressure, always with shaky hands but a steady voice.

And yes, you still have to make lunch.

The Burnout No One Sees Coming

Here’s the thing: being the emotional regulator often is part of the mental load. But it’s sneakier. You can’t list it out like a to-do list:

✅ grab milk

✅ pay electricity bill

❌ De-escalate child’s sensory meltdown while suppressing own panic and making it look like everything’s fine

When your days are filled with navigating explosive reactions, decoding tonal shifts, and absorbing your child’s dysregulation before it spills onto the floor in a screaming heap. You stop even noticing that you’re doing it. Until your body makes you notice. (Hello, tension headaches, adrenal fatigue, and the delightful rage cry combo that hits at 3:17 pm on a Wednesday.)

It’s emotional labour, but it’s also emotional suppression. Because your own nervous system? It doesn’t get a look-in. You’re too busy co-regulating everyone else’s.

And it builds. The longer it goes unspoken, the heavier it gets. Until you're not just tired. You're hollow.

It Starts Early

From the moment we’re little, some of us are trained—directly or indirectly—to notice what others are feeling and fix it. To be agreeable. To be helpful. To smooth over tension. Girls, especially, are praised for being the peacemakers, the calm ones, the ones who keep everything running smoothly without making a fuss.

And we get good at it. So good that by the time we hit adulthood, especially parenthood, it’s second nature to carry everyone else’s emotional mess.

We become the default regulators. The tone setters. The emotional safety nets. Not because we signed up for it, but because we were raised for it.

“From early childhood, girls are encouraged to be nice, to care for others, and to put the feelings of others before their own. They learn to be the emotional managers of the world around them—often without being consciously aware of it.” — Soraya Chemaly

We regulate everyone else while quietly falling apart. We cry in the bathroom, take deep breaths in the car before walking back inside, and plaster on smiles while our insides scream, “Who’s regulating ME?”

This isn’t some dramatic martyrdom complex. It’s learned. Ingrained. Expected. We’ve been taught that we’re strong if we keep it all together, and difficult if we don’t.

Add Neurodivergence, Shake Vigorously

Now add neurodivergent kids to the mix. Kids who feel everything intensely, who often live in fight or flight, who don’t respond to the classic “calm down” (because honestly, when has that ever worked?), and who can’t just “hold it together until we get home.”

Kids who need a parent who doesn’t just love them, but can read them, absorb their chaos, and hand it back in a form they can manage.

Every interaction becomes an exercise in strategic regulation. It’s not “calm down” it’s "I can see this is too much, let’s go somewhere quiet or you’re safe, I’ve got you." It’s prepping for transitions. Watching for signs of sensory overload. Knowing when to step in and when to back off. Running mental algorithms every second to prevent everything from going sideways.

And if you’re homeschooling? That’s your full-time gig. No break. No school hours to offload to a trained adult. You are the teacher, the OT, the support worker, the emotional safe harbour. And sometimes the punching bag. All in one.

Even joyful moments carry the weight of emotional surveillance. Will this spark a meltdown? Can they handle this stimulation? Are we heading into overload?

The Fallout? Is Us

So what happens to the emotional regulator? Often: complete and utter burnout. Resentment. Health issues. A sense of invisibility. Because unlike the big, noisy meltdowns, our labour is quiet. It doesn’t leave a mess on the floor. It leaves a mess inside us.

We stop asking for help because we’ve convinced everyone we’ve got this. We say “I’m fine” because to say otherwise would risk the whole ship sinking. And then we wonder why we’re exhausted by 9am, crying at Aldi because the avocado shelf is empty.

We become the safe space for everyone but ourselves.

And no one claps.

No one checks in.

No one says, "Hey, that looked hard. You ok?"

What It Means to Stop

Stopping doesn’t mean dropping everything and walking off into the sunset. It means choosing not to be the emotional sponge for the whole household all the time.

It means noticing—really noticing—when you're regulating everyone else but ignoring yourself. It means stopping and saying:

"I can't be the calm one today."

"Someone else needs to step in."

"My needs matter too."

It means naming the load. Out loud. Even if your voice shakes.

It means starting small: not jumping in to mediate every sibling argument. Not pre-empting every meltdown. Letting your partner (if you have one) feel the full ripple effect sometimes.

It’s not about abandoning your family. It’s about including yourself in the list of people who deserve care.

Stopping is radical. And it’s necessary.

So What Now?

We talk about it. Loudly. We name it. We write blog posts like this. We connect with other parents who know that emotional regulation isn’t a soft skill, it’s survival.

We recognise that being calm doesn’t mean we’re coping. And that strength isn’t staying silent. It's saying, this is too much.

We start passing the emotional baton, even if just for a minute. We build our kids' capacity to co-regulate. We educate the people around us. We set boundaries, even when it feels impossible.

Because yes, we’re the emotional backbone of our families. But even spines need support.

And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is put the load down.

Feeling this? You’re not the only one. And you’re definitely not broken.

If you’re nodding along and wondering why you're so tired all the time, you might want to head over to this next: 👉 Burnout for Accidental Homeschoolers

Because emotional regulation isn’t just exhausting. Sometimes, it’s the invisible load that pushes all of us past our limit.

We’re in this together.