Invisible grief: The emotional burnout women experience when they don’t feel seen or heard
When I was flying back from New York in the summer, I broke down crying on the plane as it was taking off. The lights were dimmed and I covered my face with my hands to let streams of tears fall. Even though there was an initial reason that triggered this, I couldn't work out why the crying was so deep and palpable because it didn't feel like it was for all the usual reasons people cry for; it wasn't sadness, or hurt or anything of that kind. If I wasn't so attuned with my emotions, it would've been easy to label it as such and only fixate on the triggering event. At some point I had a gradual realisation that this feeling washing over me wasn’t sadness, it was grief without loss, a kind of emotional burnout I hadn’t recognised before.
Then again, (fittingly) on Mental Health Day which was Friday 10th October, my company gave us the day off and I went strolling around London town. This time I visited the Guildhall Art Gallery after what must have been fifteen years, and despite finding wonders of beauty which would usually help uplift my spirits, I also found new tears streaming down my face on the train journey home. When I arrived home to decompress and reflect, once again I realised it was grief.
Grief is commonly associated with death and yet I have not had anyone pass from my life. But grief is also associated with loss, and here my heart truly can relate. The past four years have been incredibly hard for me, with 2024 officially depleting me of any fight and resilience I had left.
Even back in Dubai during my brother-in-law's wedding, I awoke at 4am hearing the call to prayer echo over the Middle Eastern night sky, and I cried, and cried, and cried. My mother heard and came in to console me. I remember my heart turning that night as I realised something was fundamentally changing, or dying, within me (maybe both).
And this is despite my multiple breakdowns in between. Whilst ‘breakdown’ is often thrown around carelessly, this was the first time in my life I truly experienced it. Again and again.
There are many life events which have led me to this space, making it incredibly difficult to clearly articulate what is the main premise of this permanent heartbreak. It has been ineffable for a while, a sense of knowing but one which is too big to put in words. However I try, what I say is not precise enough and ends up laden with other implications.
So here’s my feeble attempt at unpacking all this heaviness which has fundamentally changed the entire trajectory of my life…
I upheld the role of the brown wife, the brown daughter-in-law, the brown niece - not because I was coerced, but because I believed in the values behind them. I believed the institution of family could anchor us. I overlooked the familial plots and politics, and all the negative influence that it had on me, my own family and eventually my marriage, all of which were impressing a lofty image, promises and expectations, with the intent to undermine my family and I. And this lofty image is what is still displayed to the world and upholds the facades and delicate self esteem of this community of people.
Since then, these past years have shown the cost of maintaining the kind of familial system that only recognises you when it doesn't have to account for anything.
It was a system which set up a poor foundation for my marriage - though I will appreciate it was done with good intent. And when this foundation that I was being coerced to build and uphold, collapsed, alongside all that loftiness, there has been no one to acknowledge this unfamiliar trajectory, let alone take some accountability or even acknowledge the mess it has produced. A mess which now only affects me and my children. Not anyone who was directly, or indirectly, doing the coercing or loftiness.
I never expected an intervention as such, had there not been any intervention at the start when I first got married. Start as you mean to go on, as they say. But there were indeed different dynamics of intervention at play, and I'm not referring to the obvious, dramatic, or even noticeable kind. This is the world of polite society where niceties are exchanged to cover the inauthenticity and insecurities. So by intervention, we're referring to subtle power plays. Which again, I gracefully endured thinking it was regarding trivial matters.
The snowball is no longer trivial.
At the start of my marriage, I tried to softly build a dynamic which will enable us to steer our lives how we might see fit, whilst still involving and balancing family alongside. This failed. Anything I ever tried to initiate or shape failed and was met with great disregard.
And so, as the first born daughter, who then became the first daughter-in-law of another family, I happily let go of this steering attempt, presuming this great disregard was part of some elaborate plan which the families must have, as some brown families too, and I was happy to oblige should it meant it would be for the greater good and maintaining family ties.
It took some catastrophic events for both me and my own family - my mother and father who have always been graciously silent and enduring - to learn there was a false pretence at play, something which we also came to learn from our own side of the family; you compromise and overlook to maintain ties, only to discover the ties you are maintaining get unravelled by the very people you thought you were doing this for.
As it transpired, everyone was just having a good time until times were no longer good in my marriage, and then they all turned away - after having influenced the foundation of my relationship and leaving with me to - as they say - ‘hold the bag’.
Whilst I know South Asian women are often blamed and scapegoated for much, my first subtle, yet direct, experience of this kind was being told I must not have tried hard enough to change things. I was taken aback and hurt. But was I really surprised this came from another South Asian woman, and one I greatly admired? Probably not. Especially as I could appreciate it was her attempt at trying to motivate and support me, for which I was grateful for, however it ended up landing.
But let's also be very clear; as an instinctive woman I was never naive and spotted the red flags right from the very start. I was hoping I'd be wrong but still persistently raised my concerns, only to be dismissed. Liken it to someone desperately trying to make those around them see they are on a sinking ship, and even once sunk, nobody really admitting that it has done. And let me add….even my attempt at signposting the ship sinking was overlooked and undermined.
Much of my anger came from silently witnessing hypocrisy but overlooking it. Enduring arrogance but justifying it. Being at the receiving end of selfishness, but forgiving it. Experiencing double standards but moving on from it…because nobody is perfect, including myself.
Much of my pain came from feeling unseen and unheard, a form of emotional neglect that accumulates over years from people whom I once thought were loved ones and thought quite highly of.
And where I expected reciprocity, I found cowardice. Where I expected accountability, I found image management. Where I expected some kind gesture, I found convenience politics.
That’s when I understood the sociological root of my grief: I was navigating systems that relied on my silence, my compliance, my forgiveness, and my emotional labour - while offering no legitimacy in return.
In case it isn't obvious, this hurt is very deep. It's deep because it isn't relating to just one moment, or even just one person, or one situation, it's relating to many, all mixed in with the good, and me choosing to see the good.
Why am I sharing this and what does it continue to mean as a South Asian woman? Because I underwent a string of realisation after I had my two boys; one of which was that it's my job to protect and set expectations for my children, and set expectations of the kind of behaviour I will not tolerate for my loved ones. It is now my job to create the right kind of foundation for them and their future families.
I bought into wanting to love and support a patriarchy, but realised I will have to embark on building a matriarchy. We’ll unpack that another time.
Which is why this year became that of processing; unpacking and deconstructing all the new truths and realisations about my marriage, the people around me and my environment. So much so, in fact, I even set myself a ‘deadline’ to become at peace with all my devastations by December 2025. Then maybe I can try to rebuild come January.
I think my body heard me because it started to reflect on pretty much everything. Not even consciously, might I add. Even when I would choose to let go and be present, my heart was still turbulent.
Whilst being seen and heard is often needed from those around us, especially from our loved ones, the ultimate life lesson is learning how to see and receive ourselves. As social beings, this doesn't take away our need from needing it from others, but it can help place a little power back into our hands so we can take small steps in the direction that is true for us.
Now, this might be a step too far but I certainly am a spiritual woman. So it came as a surprise, as much as it didn't, that in numerology - the belief in a mystical relationship between numbers and events - 2025 happens to be the 9th year which signifies the end of a cycle (with 2016 having been the first year, signifying new beginnings). As such, it's the year of bringing closure to projects and relationships, letting go of what no longer serves you, and preparing for a new beginning.
Regardless of how much empirical truth there is in this, from a spiritual standpoint nothing has ever been truer for me. The past four years have been the dismantling of beliefs, the collapse of false truths and the shedding of illusions. And I've spent the better part of this year, and whatever energy I've had left, fighting to go down gracefully. And it indeed has been a fight.
And here I am. Dealing with the aftermath. And further concluding this is the death of the first cycle of my marriage as much as it is the death of the woman, wife, daughter in law, niece and ‘that woman part of that family/community’ that I used to be.
And this is pretty much what this next chapter of my life will entail - re-building a new normal.
There is much that has emerged from this journey. But here are six pivotal reflections, followed by the three ways I have been trying to keep myself together.
Generational hardship repeats in updated forms
I naively, (or as I like to frame it - wishfully) thought maybe I would not have the same struggles as my parents. And whilst I most certainly can't claim to have been dealing with exactly what they did, there are so many striking similarities in the adversity I have found myself in, which my mother too was faced with.
It transpires in part I was grappling with generational trauma, the inherited silence of South Asian women. Whether the woman is being neglected by her own family, overlooked by her in-laws, ignored by her husband or even forgetting herself.
Even back when I took a stab at addressing my identity as a brown woman, I shared how my own fundamental needs were no different from all the women of my lineage; from my mother, my gran, my nan, and all their stories of hardship which once again boiled down to this simple idea heavy with implication: not being seen and heard.
It seems there are things which have been left unfinished and they've led me to seek ways I have had to adapt and change to be able to grow beyond them. And hopefully not continue to pass them down to the next generation.
2. Shifting onus and expectations back onto yourself
This has been the transformative insight. When you're part of a system, be it a marriage, a family, a culture, the livelihood of it is dependent on all parts interconnecting and playing a role. As such, it necessitates adjustment and acceptance in the forms of compromise, sacrifice and patience, and expectations end up being a natural byproduct of this system.
I'm not going to move on to say we must not have any expectations; expectations are the blood line of a full life. And I'm certainly not inclined to aim low so I don't fall from so high. But instead, it was the realisation that when you aim at all, you do so with agency and self-conviction.
3. People’s facades reveal more than their character
Despite the daily practice of humility, there has been much I've struggled to accept and reconcile. Conscious decisions of all the things I had to come to terms with, these new truths didn't materialise overnight and it's taking time and experience to integrate these new truths into my day-to-day life.
One of these hard truths is coming to learn of people's true character, and this facade created to project a certain image to the world. As my mother likes to keep reminding me, the whole world is this way…apparently. And whilst I appreciate some environments are more inclined to be structured this way, like the workplace, I do not want to practice such nonsense at home. That is not my idea of a family. (Even in the workplace I often refuse to participate in this ‘perception over reality’ theatre, because I just don't have the energy. The effort it takes to project an image, is the effort I'd rather apply to actually becoming and living that image I'm supposed to be projecting).
4. Identity can dissolve before it reforms
I am a woman who puts a lot of emphasis on character and values. Discovering what these are for me have been in part a natural unfolding of life experiences, as much as it has been a conscious effort to define them. There's an intersection which I've balanced. Life can stretch and pull you in all kinds of directions, my values and my character are ultimately what I try to revert back to anchor and stabilize me again. But life also has a remarkable way of putting you in situations which may question what you thought you knew about yourself, and the world around you; at one point I didn’t recognise myself, the classic signs of an identity crisis emerging.
You can come out of this in one of two ways: either changing who you are and what you stand for. Or as I like to call it, leveling up, so you can continue to pursue who you are and what you want to continue to stand for.
5. Letting go is iterative, not final
Letting go isn't actually finite. It's not an event that takes place which you can then move past. Not always. And certainly not instantaneously. The process of both forgiving and letting go must happen each time you are triggered, reminded and faced back with the subject at hand. Again and again. If you commit to it, not only does it get easier each time, but it uncovers new realisations each time. Especially that of seeing the same situation with love, compassion and empathy.
Ideally, you'd be lucky enough to be with someone who can love you through those cycles again and again, and help heal whatever hurt you're carrying (often mixed with childhood hurt and experiences), so each time you can let go a little bit more and come back to yourself.
As I do not have this luxury, I am learning to provide this to myself. When my hurt surfaces, I walk away into a space and envision being what I need for me to feel seen and heard. It definitely doesn't have the same effect as a loved one doing this for you, but it has helped me manage my internal turbulence, and as a result, refrain from causing any external turbulence.
6. Slowing down is a form of power management
It's a fast-paced world and I'm a fast paced woman, who thinks light years ahead and of all the possible outcomes, and all the possible nuances, in between. This personal experience, alongside my growth at work, opened up a new way of thinking. This year forced me into an unplanned slow-living season. Contrary to how it may seem, slowing down does not equate to settling or compromising, even though the current state of the world may make you feel that way.
So I began to slow down, not as withdrawal, but as strategy.
Not to retreat, but to reclaim bandwidth. Not to reject my culture, but to renegotiate my place within it.
Slowing down became a form of power management. It let me see who valued the appearance of harmony over doing the hard work of maintaining it.
As this has been the beginning of breaking cycles, reclaiming myself and learning to let go emotionally, here are practical ways I tried to keep myself together…
Distancing from (extended) family
As a family orientated woman, this has been the most conflicting, yet necessary, step I've had to take in order to reclaim my space. And even that was a tug of war. However, it has also been a signal that I will no longer tolerate what I once overlooked at my own expense, in order to keep up appearances. If people are going to remain silent, then these are not my people.
Exchanging niceties is still a daily practice. And whilst before I was able to do this regularly, I've found I can no longer play a convincing role in certain environments for certain people. I've been taking as much of a step back as I can to fill my cup to ensure I have carved out and protected my space.
2. Seeking connection through companionship
Friend, Neighbour, stranger, pen pal, cat. Whatever connection you have, or can create, to bring back a little light in your life, and help expand thoughts and feelings beyond what you're dealing with in the present. The best way to rewire emotions and habits is to create new experiences which can override the old ones. Previous experiences and memories don't disappear or get replaced, but they get reframed and de-prioritised.
3. Resting in solitude
On the opposite end of companionship, is seeking solitude. Time for a coffee, a walk, a dance. Swapping digital devices for a book (something I quite literally crave where I feel like putting my phone down and holding a book and staring at pages instead). Seeking comfort in cooking and decluttering, finding joy in pretty much anything and everything. Resting in solitude became a much welcomed form of burnout recovery.
Grief, I realised, is not always about losing someone. Sometimes it is the cost of outgrowing the structures that once shaped you. Sometimes it is the moment you stop performing the version of yourself that kept those structures intact.
And sometimes, it is the first step towards reclaiming your own legitimacy, not granted by others, but asserted from within.
I’m a Cancerian woman and true to my sign and its associated ruling celestial body - the moon, I am cyclical going through continuous deaths and rebirths. I underwent one such substantial shift 12 years ago, from which gave birth to this reflection towards desperately clinging to beauty as a balm to heal. And now comes the death of yet another version of the woman I was, to give way to the next.
Another life lesson or two…
