Recently, in a session with Kalyani Menon, a conversation about care came up while we were discussing feminist dilemmas. A simple question came to me:
“What does practising feminist care look like for me when I am exhausted as a working mother, but the work still expects me to show up with clarity and presence?”
I find myself constantly holding emotional and relational spaces. There is an unspoken expectation to be available, thoughtful, responsive, and grounded. And at the same time, I am navigating the real fatigue of mothering a small child – the limited time to breathe, and the invisible labour that doesn’t pause just because work needs me.
I always think Allah has blessed me with a great workspace. I work in an organisation that truly honours feminist principles. It is flexible, trusting, deeply values care, and never makes me feel policed. If anything, it consistently encourages me to rest, to take time, to honour the pace of my life as a young mother.
And yet there is a guilt that sits inside me. A guilt that has nothing to do with my organisation, and everything to do with how I’ve been raised to see work, responsibility, and worth. This feeling that I might only be valued if I am extremely productive. This thought that my colleague is not taking leave, or not skipping meetings, or working late, but aren’t our contexts different? If I were in their place, maybe I would do the same. But am I not already doing double labour, double work as a working mom, wife, woman?
How much do I expect my body to endure?
Do I not owe anything to my own body and mind – don’t they need to slow down?
How far can I push my limits?
And then another thought comes: this is my reality now. Even when my child grows older and starts school, this cycle won’t end. So, is this the most I can do? And as I age, I will also slow down. Then, when will I be “free”? When will I do my best work? Maybe never after marriage? These thoughts keep circling.
Sometimes I think of this line I once read:
Aurat itni qaid hae ki usne, Azadi k roop mai naukri ko chuna (Woman is so caged that she found freedom in the job.)
And it makes sense to me. We don’t love labour, we love the small autonomy it gives us, the financial independence, sisterhood, solidarity, identity, a room of our own, and a voice that is heard. It gives us a world beyond domestic expectations.
During the session, someone asked: “Why do we expect care from organisations at all?”
It made me pause.
The truth is: I don’t expect my organisation to “solve” care for me. They already give so much -flexibility, kindness, trust. What I’m wrestling with is much more internal:
- Why does rest feel like something I must earn?
- Why does saying “I need a break” feel like I’m taking something I shouldn’t?
- Why is receiving care still uncomfortable, even when it is freely offered?
Arundhati- my dear colleague’s words stayed with me. She said many of us are simply not used to receiving care. Even when it is written into policy, fought for politically, and normalised by the organisation, our bodies still react with guilt; we measure our value through productivity.
It struck me how often I equate care with accountability as if resting is irresponsible, or resting means someone else will have to carry the weight I put down. Arundhati called this “borderline martyrdom,” and I could totally relate.
And then there is another truth: many of us come from families that are not feminist spaces.
Care at home often means emotional labour, silence or sacrificing your needs. So when we enter feminist organisations, we carry a quiet, tender hope that these spaces will feel different – softer, more spacious, more aligned with our politics and maybe needs.
My organisation is that space for me. The struggle is not external.
It’s the internalised voice that says:
“Don’t slow down.”
“Don’t ask for too much.”
“Don’t be the one who rests.”
Kalyani reminded us that framing care only as self-care can individualise what is actually structural. And Shraddha expanded this, moving from personal care to how movements themselves sometimes turn inward, focusing on healing rather than the broader political and structural analysis of care, including questions of public provisioning, collective infrastructure, and what it means to build care beyond individuals and organisations.
