Sometimes women are visible, seen, and acknowledged only through what they have to offer, bits and pieces pulled from the core of their identity, leaving behind nothing but an existence mistaken for a doormat, a shoulder to lean on, or someone available at the drop of a hat.
They are the planners, the listeners, the emotional carriers, and the people who ensure to keep note of birthdays, dinners are cooked, and crises are silently solved. Their labour is everywhere, yet what are they without it? They are seen in the margins of to-do lists, stained cups of tea on the coffee table, dirty dishes left on the counter, and undone laundry. The luxury of negligence doesn’t exist for them.
The act of disappearing
For the majority of women, adulthood sets in with the loud standard of holding the world together. Whether they are mothers, daughters, or wives, the ability to care or give quantifies their value. Over time, the act of caring becomes their identity, and this identity gradually fades away, resulting in a sense of emptiness. A mother stops being known as herself and begins to be known as “Ammi.”
It begins as love and gradually transforms into a form of erasure. The world relentlessly keeps on taking what a woman has to offer: her time and her energy, and occasionally pauses to spectate what remains of her when everyone else’s needs are met.
The myth of altruism
Society recognises selflessness as the highest feminine virtue. A woman who directs her attention mostly to herself is tagged as selfish or neglectful. A mother who takes a weekend for herself might be judged, as a wife who doesn’t prioritise her husband’s comfort might be called cold. Even rest becomes radical when you’ve been taught that your worth lies in service.
This narrative is specifically sharper and more rigid in Pakistan. Women are raised to serve as the emotional anchors of a family, the ones who soak up the tension, who never protest, and who make it work. That is the reason why you’ll find mothers silently saving the best piece of meat for their sons or staying up until everyone has eaten. None of these gestures is small, yet they remain unacknowledged when practised, and when not, they become dangerous as they define her entire existence.
A care that consumes
Caretaking is potent; it sustains families, friendships, and even communities. But when it becomes relentless and unquestioned or unacknowledged, it consumes the self.
Psychologists refer to this phenomenon as role engulfment, which occurs when a single role completely encapsulates an individual’s identity, leaving minimal room for personal needs or desires. For women, this happens quietly. There isn’t one dramatic disappearance, just a slow dullness, the hobbies left behind, the conversations always about others, and the dreams suppressed in the excuse of responsibility.
This is why some women in their forties and fifties suddenly feel like strangers to themselves. They look around one day and wonder: Who was I before I was needed?
The toll of perpetually giving
The emotional cost of this invisibility is exorbitant. Studies prove that women who bear the most caregiving responsibilities are more vulnerable to anxiety, fatigue, and burnout. Yet this exhaustion is often banished as a feature that accompanies being a woman, something to be silently endured, not talked about.
This erasure also shapes how families see women. Children grow up watching their mothers serve, not rest. Sons grasp that a woman’s care is instinctive. Daughters are taught that being loved means offering endlessly. And so, the cycle continues, each generation of women slowly disappearing into the roles they’ve been provided with.
Remembering the self
Visibility for women doesn’t require splendid actions. It begins with small acts of self-acknowledgement. It involves taking time to rest without feeling guilty. Refusing without the shame trampling down their chests. They need to know that love and obligation are not the same thing.
A cultural shift is also imperative, one where families and partners learn to see women as full people, not just caretakers. Where mothers are asked what they want, and where daughters are raised to believe that their value is not proportional to what they have to offer. Because love, in its truest form, doesn’t demand erasure. It nurtures presence.
Reclaiming space
In the end, the challenge isn’t for women to stop caring. It’s to care for themselves with the same tenderness they extend to others. To reclaim time, attention, and visibility, not as indulgence, but as necessity. The invisible motherhood can end when we begin to name it.
When women are seen not just for the roles they play, but for the lives they live beyond them. Because the truest form of care isn’t the one that empties you out; it’s the one that allows you to remain whole.