Off the Chores

When Holding It All Starts to Show

The first sign that something was off wasn’t a breakdown. It was the sudden urge to negotiate with the pressure cooker.

Not unplug it.
Not switch it off.
But negotiate…

As in: Listen, I’ve already handled three deadlines, one tantrum, and a missing maid today. If you could whistle a little less aggressively, we might both get through this day.

The kitchen looked deceptively peaceful. The tube light softened the clean counters. Rice simmered obediently. Cumin tried its best to comfort. Outside, the sky was winding down. Inside, I was very much still at work.

Hello there! I am Siya. I have a house, a family, a husband, 2 lovely kids, and most importantly, a househelp. I like music, books, filter coffee, dance, painting, travelling and what not, but only when life permits me😅. Technically, I’m a corporate professional in a mid-level role. Practically, I run two full-time operations, home and office, with no overlap in empathy and complete overlap in deadlines.

By day, I manage client expectations, novice teams, and workflows that work better in theory than in practice. By night, I manage dinner, unfinished homework, a maid who may or may not arrive tomorrow, and a household that runs largely because I keep a mental checklist active at all times.

Welcome to my world

The pressure cooker whistled, 1… 2…My phone buzzed. Which crisis gets my attention first?”

I realised I was still logged in, mentally and otherwise.

There popped up an offshore call reminder.
Then another message. The client wants a quick change. Shouldn’t take long.

It never takes long. That’s the problem. Our prototypes were still being debugged. The workflow had been reworked so many times that the unspoken agreement was simple: just get it done somehow. Which meant late-night bug fixes, last-minute changes, and the quiet expectation that flexibility is a personality trait.

The cooker whistled again, right on cue.

And suddenly, I was deeply offended by the pressure cooker??

Nothing was wrong. Everything was too much.

I was standing in my kitchen at the start of a perfectly ordinary day, holding a kadchi like a peace offering, when the battameez cooker loudly demanded attention too.

From the living room came the familiar soundtrack of my life. Bhajans playing with full devotion while everyone prepared for a real-life Bigg Boss episode.

“Siya, do you know where my socks are? Is ghar mein ek bhi cheez time pe nahi milti?”

And suddenly, I was like, “Chalo, hogayi Good morning!”

No one was being unreasonable. That was the most unreasonable part.

I wasn’t angry at my family.
I wasn’t angry at work.
I was just tired of being the common meeting point for everyone’s unfinished planning.

More quietly, I was tired of calling this managing.

I hadn’t lost my mind.

I had just lent it out extensively, interest-free and with no return date!

Composed Chaos

And somewhere along the way, strength stopped being something I did. It became something I am known for. I stopped wearing my fav reds and pinks. Those mulmul sarees that I once adored now lay quietly folded while my jhumkas sat in the cupboard patiently waiting to be worn again with love.

My approach towards work also changed. I’m now described as strong-headed. I don’t have patience for corporate cushioning. I don’t say “just a thought” when I mean “this won’t work.” I prefer accuracy over diplomacy and resolution over optics. My teammates gossip about me being strongly opinionated and unaccommodating. Which translates into aggressive and unapproachable.

Depletion doesn’t arrive dramatically. It shows up as irritation, indifference, and resentment toward words like adjust, manage and be grateful.

I’m old enough to know better and young enough to still be expected to do more. The strange middle where people tell you you’ve come far, while quietly suggesting you could still optimise your body, your marriage and your gratitude.

There’s also a thing I haven’t named out loud. The knowledge folded neatly between errands and emails is my husband’s office affair. Not explosive enough to confront, not small enough to ignore. (Just to add a little spice to life, in his words.)

I know-I don’t-And trust me, I like to keep it that way.

I file it under not now.,

Under I don’t have the bandwidth to fall apart.,

Under later, when life is less full…

Acknowledging it would demand questions I’m too tired to answer.
So I carry on.
I cook. I work. I manage.
I compress.

My body started protesting in small, inconvenient ways. Irritability, tiredness sleep couldn’t fix, headaches that arrived uninvited. I wasn’t falling apart. I was compressing. Just like that cooker.

Should I or shouldn't?

I felt a little less and definitely was not a great fan of what I was becoming. So, I started looking for help. Some suggested taking profession help, while some opined not to go that way. It was during one of such candid conversations that I wondered if therapies and counsellings are still such a taboo. Nevertheless, I still wanted to give life another chance.

Therapy gave me language for it: what you don’t express doesn’t disappear; it finds another exit. That evening, it became crystal clear.

What I want isn’t escape.

It’s a break from narration.

From translating discomfort into acceptable language.

From being the emotionally evolved one in every room.

The pressure cooker whistles again as it dawned on to me for the first time that it is not a noise, but a mirror. Being capable does not mean being available by default.

The first boundary I set was embarrassingly small.

When something was assumed, I said, “I can’t take this on today.”

No explanation. No justification. No PowerPoint.

The rooms went quiet. I felt awkward. Guilty.

Slightly dramatic, but strangely lighter!

Reliable, Until You Disappear!

Around the same time, I noticed changes in Nivetha my neighbour, and partner in crime. We were each other’s only vent out spaces in our jumbled lives. She was a hardcore management professional, not loud or dramatic, but efficient. The kind that made chaos look manageable.

She absorbed pressure without complaint. Stayed late, fixed what others left unfinished. Smoothed edges so meetings could end on time and egos could remain intact.

When she spoke about work, it came padded with context.
They’re under pressure.
It’s a tough quarter.
They didn’t mean it.

Understanding had become her reflex. Slowly, her armour.

Burnout arrived as emotional thinning. Shorter sentences, quieter evenings, a presence that was there but not fully.

One night, over dinner, she mentioned almost casually, that a deal she had worked relentlessly to close had been executed without her knowledge.

No anger. No disbelief. Just acceptance.

What stayed with me wasn’t the incident. It was the self-blame.

“I should’ve spoken earlier,” she said. “I guess I allowed it.”

That sentence landed hard.

Being reliable doesn’t make you indispensable. It makes you invisible—until you decide it won’t.

Nivetha didn’t rebel. She recalibrated. Clear agendas, explicit ownership, planned delegations and documented decisions.

The next time work expanded casually, she paused.
“I can help, but we’ll need to reprioritize. What should move?”

She learned something most corporate cultures never teach explicitly:

Reliability, when unspoken, becomes entitlement
Being low-friction often means low-recognition
Clarity isn’t confrontation. It’s leadership

She didn’t lose goodwill. She became legible. And in organizations that quietly reward visibility over value, being legible is how you stay relevant without disappearing.

Always On Isn’t the Same as Being There

Ruhaan is sixteen. Which means his world doesn’t end after school. It follows him home, sits beside him at dinner, and lights up long after the lights go out.

He’s empathetic. A good listener. The one friends trust with screenshots, voice notes, confessions sent at 1:12 a.m.

For a while, I mistook this for emotional maturity.

Then I noticed the patterns.

His phone never rested. Messages kept coming. Group chats spiralled. Private messages arrived stamped “please don’t tell anyone.” “Share the notes with me.” “Help me with this.”

He replied to all of them.
Not because he had answers.
Because he didn’t know how to step away.

He stayed up later. His mornings grew heavier. He snapped and then apologized immediately. That worried me more than the mood swings.

I took a day off. Not dramatically. Just a quiet pause.

By afternoon, the house settled. I was making chai while Ruhaan wandered in, phone in hand, eyes tired.

“Ruhu, your phone looks tired,” I said.

“So am I, mom.”

“I took today off.”

“From work?”

“From everything. Even fixing things.”

That made him pause.

“Do you ever feel like you’re always on call?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like if I don’t reply, something bad might happen.”

I nodded. “Do you think that about me?”

“No. You’re allowed to be busy.”

“Interesting how that works.”

“People just message,” he said. “Late at night. When they’re stressed. I don’t know how to help, but I can’t ignore it.”

“Listening doesn’t mean fixing,” I said. “And caring doesn’t mean carrying.”

“But what if they stop talking to me?”

“Then they weren’t friends,” I said. “They were emotional dependents.”

He laughed, then paused.

“I tried saying no once.”

“And?”

“Nothing happened.”

“That’s usually how it goes.”

“You’re allowed to rest before you’re broken,” I said. “You don’t have to earn exhaustion.”

He turned his phone face down.
“I’ll reply tomorrow.”

“A revolutionary act!” we both giggled.

Our talk wandered through everything under the sky. Pimples-Discord-Roblox. We touched ambition and honesty. Lingered around kindness without confusion and clarity without cruelty.

After a pause, he cleared his throat.

“A girl likes me,” he said and paused.

But, “I don’t feel the same.”

“What scares you?” I asked.

“Hurt. Losing her. Making things awkward.”

“Kindness and honesty aren’t opposites,” I said. “Confusion hurts more than clarity.”

“So what do I say?”

“Simple. Honest. Not over-explained.”

I said it slowly:
I value you as a friend. I don’t feel the same way romantically. I didn’t want to lead you on. I understand if you need space.

“That’s scary,” he said.

“Yes. And fair.”

“What if she stops talking to me?”

“Then that’s her boundary,” I said. “And you respect it.”

“And if she stays?”

“Then you’ll have a friendship built on honesty instead of obligation.”

He leaned back.
“I always feel responsible for how people feel.”

I smiled. “I know. That’s why we’re talking.”

“You don’t owe anyone a relationship to prove you’re kind.”

He nodded. “I think I can do this.”

As I sat next to him, something hopeful settled in.

He wasn’t learning how to say no.

He was learning how to stay whole while doing it.

Where Strength Learns to Rest

Deadlines ping. Messages pile up. Expectations never pause.

And yet, we are learning to respond differently.

Nivetha showed that being reliable without boundaries is invisible labour disguised as virtue. She recalibrated by making ownership explicit, setting agendas, and pausing before agreeing while turning expectations into clarity and influence.

Ruhaan revealed that empathy without limits becomes self-erasure. He learned that saying no protects presence, preserves energy, and strengthens relationships rather than breaking them.

I realized that strength is no longer measured by how much I carry silently. Strength is in noticing what is mine to carry, what to delegate, and when to step back without guilt.

The solution is deceptively simple: set boundaries, make contributions visible, communicate expectations clearly, and prioritize self-preservation as a non-negotiable skill. Caring without carrying. Reliable without vanishing. Present without depletion.

Life continues its demands, but this time we answer on our terms.
We choose what we carry.
We delegate what we cannot.
We pause when we must.

And in doing so, we reclaim our work, our relationships, and ourselves…

***************

Off the Chores!