But what do we really mean by “work”? To understand the full picture, we have to look beyond paychecks and office hours. This is about the invisible labor that keeps households and communities running. When we measure work only by what’s paid, we erase the many hours women spend managing households, coordinating schedules, keeping families fed, and maintaining the social safety nets that help everyone survive.

In dual-income cishet households, women face unique pressures around balancing work and caregiving—especially after having kids. Women are more likely than men to leave their jobs after becoming parents (Pew Research Center; McKinsey & Co). Reasons include the lack of guaranteed parental leave, persistent pay gaps, and the belief that a man’s career offers more long-term earning potential. This investment in his career often starts early, with women making choices to support their partners’ professional paths or accommodate inflexible work demands.

In cishet partnerships, women often end up taking flexible jobs that don’t offer healthcare or opportunities for growth, putting them in vulnerable positions. They’re expected to be the lynchpins of family life—balancing flexibility for their kids with the need to remain reliable at work. Many start their own businesses because they can’t find something that meets their flexibility needs. When things get overwhelming at home or at work, women are expected to step in and figure it out.

The data shows that, both globally and in the U.S., women consistently shoulder more unpaid work than men (OECD, 2018; Fortune, 2026). This includes everything from cooking and cleaning to kin-keeping—the emotional and logistical labor of maintaining families and communities. This invisible labor is the backbone of households and communities. Just because this work isn’t seen or paid doesn’t mean it isn’t essential. Dollar amounts are a poor measure of a job’s true impact, and shouldn’t be the only metric we use to prioritize what matters.

This work takes countless forms in daily life.

A mom might network with other parents to arrange carpools or help during a spouse’s work trip. She invests time in relationships with friends, neighbors, and extended family who help keep life running. Volunteering, connecting at church, or arranging lunches with other parents all create connections that benefit the family and community. This is the work that sustains us—often unnoticed, but deeply impactful.

Someone in the comment section of my post insisted, “Women do optional work at home. The housework, etc., is all optional. Women take too long, they do it unnecessarily.” That simply isn’t true. When the cost of living gets too high, it’s often women who make creative choices to stretch dollars, DIY at home, mend clothing, research affordable options, and take career hits. Many women, especially mothers, are handed a series of bad options and expected to meet impossible demands—whether they’re working for pay or not.

It’s also important to remember that social infrastructure—the networks and relationships we build—doesn’t just help us thrive, it is essential to survival. There’s plenty of evidence to back this up, but when it comes to the kinds of comments in my response to Pew’s “men work more” statement (claiming that much of the unpaid/underpaid work that women perform is optional and unnecessary and less important to paid work), I often think of something sociologist Eric Klinenberg documented in his book Palaces for the People (2018) while studying the deadly Chicago heatwave of 1995.

A multi-day heatwave hit Chicago in 1995, which killed over 730 people. Klinenberg’s research provides compelling evidence that social infrastructure can mean the difference between life and death. Of the victims, almost 3/4 were over the age of 65, and “the greatest concentrations of death were on the south and west sides of the city, in depleted, largely Black areas already afflicted by widespread unemployment, abject poverty, institutional abandonment, and massive depopulation.” These were neighborhoods with an abundance of empty lots and a lack of walkable shops, parks, schools, and community spaces.

Looking closely at the tragedy, he found that social connections played an essential role in survival rates. Comparing neighborhoods with similar racial and economic populations, he found that social infrastructure mattered. Densely populated, primarily Hispanic neighborhoods had the highest survival rates. He found that where the city’s emergency system failed, neighbors stepped in. People knocked on each other’s doors and checked in on them. Neighbors knew each other’s routines, recognized one another, sent their kids to school together, and shopped at the same stores. Folks who lived in tight-knit communities welcomed extended family, friends, and neighbors into their homes to share air conditioning and offer each other support. In communities where people knew their neighbors, survival rates were higher. Klinenberg found that of the older population, women, who are more likely to have social connections, fared better, while men were more likely to be isolated and were at higher risk. Part of what made the heat wave so dangerous was the poor transmission of emergency information. Even when men had greater access to financial resources, they fared worse without community.

In the face of unrelenting heat, it was access to air conditioning and a social safety net that mattered. According to Klinenberg, “Some of the victims perished with company nearby. But the majority died alone, behind locked doors and sealed windows that entombed them in suffocating private spaces where visitors came infrequently, and the air was heavy and still. The bodies of roughly 170 of the victims went unclaimed until the public administrator’s office launched a campaign to seek out relatives. Even then, almost one-third of the cases never moved beyond the public office.” Dozens of victims’ items were never claimed.

The tragedy of the heatwave underscores that relationships are resources. Access to air conditioning saved people, but so did connections that formed a true safety net. Maybe they knew how to nurture relationships on the golf course, but lost those connections after retirement. Money alone isn’t enough.

This isn’t just true during disasters—it’s how marginalized communities have survived for generations. Just look at any community that has historically been pushed to the margins and faces the most hostile conditions in our society. They survive because they take care of each other—helping each other navigate life, stay safe, and fill the gaps left by systems that exclude them. This is social infrastructure in action: community keeps people alive when institutions fail.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, in Braiding Sweetgrass (2013), writes about the “gift economy,” an economy outside the transactional, capitalist framework. It honors interdependence: the reality that we all impact one another and the earth, and that symbiosis and sufficiency are possible. Imagine how our lives and our world would change if we truly lived by the principles of a gift economy—giving freely, trusting that there is enough, prioritizing care, and investing our energy in community well-being.

Care work—disproportionately carried by women, often unpaid or underpaid, and too often extracted from marginalized communities—isn’t optional. It’s the work that increases our collective wellbeing and gives us lives that are truly rich.

It’s easy to overlook the layers of care that make everyday comforts possible. But what if we paused to notice them?

Try this thought exercise: take something you love—a comfort, a daily pleasure, or a moment of fulfillment—and consider all the work that made it possible. For me, it’s sitting down at the end of the day with my favorite snacks, cozy socks, a good show, and people I care about. My clothes are clean and smell like my preferred detergent, my basic needs are met, I have a bowl for my snack that someone cleaned and put away, hot water for my tea from the electric kettle my husband researched and bought, and clean hair thanks to the shampoo I remembered to buy. Every comfort is built on layers of invisible labor. Yes, money is important. But the work that turns that money into a life—often unpaid, invisible, and overlooked—is just as essential.

I don’t highlight all the work women do to downplay men’s contributions or to be divisive. I point it out because this labor is rendered invisible—erased, hidden, and dismissed. This conversation shouldn’t be gendered, and these gaps shouldn’t exist. But they do. The undervaluing of this work—and the people who primarily perform it—plays a huge role in the unjust structure of our society. Until we recognize the value of all the work that makes our lives possible, we’re going to have to keep talking about it.

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Below, you’ll find charts based on data from the 2024 American Time Use Survey (ATUS) conducted by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics.

All values shown represent average hours per day across the civilian population (age 15+), not just people who participated in a given activity. That means the numbers reflect population-level averages and include people who did zero of that activity on a given day.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics provides detailed tables and interactive tools, but the way categories are grouped can make it difficult to see how different kinds of labor—especially unpaid and care work—fit together.

So I reorganized the data into new groupings to better reflect how labor actually functions in daily life—especially the kinds of work that keep households, relationships, and communities running.

You can explore the original data, definitions, and methodology on the BLS website.

When we reorganize the data around how life actually works, a different story starts to emerge. I’m really curious what you notice in this breakdown.

What’s included in the “Main Work Categories” chart:

• Work + related activities (paid):

  • Time spent working (paid employment)

  • Work performed outside a primary job (side income, gig work)

  • Job search and interviewing

  • Work-related activities (meetings, client interactions, etc.)

  • Travel related to work (commuting)

• Home + Community Work (combined category I created to reflect unpaid labor that supports households and society):

  • Household Labor:

    • Housework (cleaning, laundry, upkeep)

    • Food preparation and cleanup

    • Household management (planning, organizing)

  • Logistical Labor:

    • Grocery shopping

    • Shopping for household goods

    • Medical and care-related errands

    • Travel related to errands

  • Care Labor:

    • Caring for household children

    • Caring for household adults

    • Caring for nonhousehold members

    • Volunteering

      

      

P.S.:

Palaces for the People by Eric Klinenberg (on audio)

Braiding Sweetgrass (on audio)& The Serviceberry (on audio) by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Join my audiobook club! This month’s book is HOPE IN THE DARK

Laura Danger is a licensed educator, experienced facilitator, and domestic equity advocate known for her clear-eyed take on household labor, care work, and relationship dynamics. With over a decade in education and a background in special education, she brings a practical, inclusive approach to rebalancing the invisible load at home.

As the creator behind thatdarnchat and co-host of the podcast Time to Lean, Laura is a trusted voice for millions navigating modern partnerships, parenting, and burnout. She has worked closely with the Fair Play team and has been featured in HuffPost, InStyle, Business Insider, Wondermind, and more for her expertise on weaponized incompetence and inequity in relationships.

Laura’s debut book, No More Mediocre, gives readers the tools to challenge dominant culture, dismantle the “nag paradox,” and build more equitable, connected households—without sacrificing themselves in the process.

That is bullshit.

I am an audiobook fan. A HUGE audiobook fan. They are an absolute blessing, and I will defend their legitimacy and value until I am dead and gone… and then maybe even more. Carve it on my tombstone. Play an audiobook at my funeral.

Audiobooks are books. You may have a preference for how you consume stories or learn new information, but research shows that our brains generally operate the same way whether we read print books or listen to audiobooks.

Research also shows that a person’s ability to engage optimally with audio vs. print varies from person to person. Some folks have a hard time processing audio info, and some are slow with print(hello, that’s me). Some focus better when sitting down with a book, others can’t focus unless they’re up and moving around. Some folks just cannot find the time to sit still! Our ability to access and comprehend information in certain formats is personal, and what really matters when you consider the purpose of a book is whether or not you comprehend and engage with it. The optimal conditions are person-to-person, and the stigma of audio does nothing but hold people back from accessing stories and information.

So if you’re an audiobook hater, CUT IT OUT!

And if you’re an audiobook reader or interested in becoming an audiobook reader, join my audiobook book club!

How? Just subscribe to the Miserable Shrew newsletter to get announcements about monthly books, chats, and events.

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We’ll read one book per month, chat about it asynchronously in the Substack chat, and have a once-a-month live discussion for those who can make it.

🌼We’ll start off April with:

HOPE IN THE DARK by Rebecca Solnit

🎧Get it from Libro.fm

GET 2 FREE AUDIOBOOKS with code SWITCH or click here to auto-apply deal (affiliate link)

📅 Register for the virtual book discussion on April 28 at 7PM Central (participation optional, I know how hard it can be to find uninterrupted time)

More about audiobooks:

8 mental and physical benefits of audiobooks from Libro.FM

About Audiobooks and Literacy from the National Literacy Trust

Check this out from The Harvard Gazette: “Audiobooks don’t really count as reading? Think again.”

And this from NPR: “Does listening to audiobooks count as reading?”

I get all of my audiobooks from Libro.fm because… well… see for yourself!

Apparently, he’d caught me hopping out of the driver’s seat of our Ram 1500 one afternoon and couldn’t make sense of it. I laughed as I listened to my husband recall the interaction.

At 5’1”, I always feel a bit ridiculous having to literally jump down from the cab. I live in a walkable area in Chicago and work from home most of the time, so the truck is definitely not for daily use. But when I do drive it, I get a kick out of pulling up next to people, looking down from my place behind the wheel, fully aware of how out-of-place I must look: little me in a big truck in a big city.

Lately, I’ve been working my way through some major home projects, so I’ve been doing a lot of hauling. That dad had likely caught me coming back from a trip to the hardware store, no doubt wearing my coveralls and the unapproachable scowl I’ve learned to wear to ward off unwanted attention(#justgirlythings). I’m sure I looked like I meant business, hands full of tools, or maybe pulling wood from the bed.

He made a totally reasonable assumption that whatever I was doing in the middle of a workday was related to what I do for a living. He assumed it was work-related, as in paid work-related—my job or my career. Whether his hypothesis was correct or not is kinda murky.

I asked my husband how he responded.

Him: “I told him you were a former special education teacher turned influencer/author/advocate. And that I make pinball machines.”

We both chuckled at how absurd it sounds. And the fact that, while his answer was honest, it didn’t exactly clear things up.

That dad had no idea how loaded that question was: What do you do?

Work—and our relationship to it—has been a central question in my life and in our household for the last few years. It’s a topic I’ve explored deeply—enough to write a book and build a million-follower platform on.

What do we do with our time and energy? How do we define work? What role does it play in our lives?

When I asked my husband how he’d gone on to explain the truck, he said he told him we got it so we could haul pinball machines and for home and garden projects, which was what he’d probably seen me in the middle of.

My husband gave that dad a simplified answer—perfectly appropriate, get-to-know-you chit-chat for a children’s birthday party.

But what’s the let’s-dig-into-it, air-it-out-on-Substack answer?

What I do—and what I value—doesn’t always fit into a job title. Sometimes my “professional” work is unpaid. Sometimes my “personal” work is paid. I’m two months out from publishing a book that took years to complete. I create content that breaks down complex ideas to rewrite cultural narratives. I spent a decade as an educator, facilitator, and curriculum developer, and continue that work beyond the classroom. I’ve partnered with organizations, managed campaigns, and helped strategize for businesses large and small. I do a variety of paid and unpaid work on any given day. And all of the work that goes into our lives—paid or unpaid—is, ultimately, work that we do for a living. Even our rest and pleasure are part of this equation.

See what I mean about it being murky and loaded?

As it pertained to that dad’s question, though, my husband did a pretty decent job capturing the essence of “what I do”.

What he skipped over was that I’m currently sitting in an in-between space, thinking a lot about what I will do next.

A big part of what I’ve been doing is job hunting.

My goal has always been change—a shift toward a world centered on care. The platform I’ve built has had my face all over it, but it hasn’t necessarily been about me. It was never about personal gain—it was about giving language to hidden dynamics and challenging what we’ve been taught to accept. I’m proud to have helped bring issues like weaponized incompetence and the mental load into the public conversation. Now, I’m seeking a new way to make a strategic, lasting impact.

I’m looking for a job where I can put my skills to work for something impactful—work that not only aligns with my values, but also provides the stability and security we all need.

My background in education taught me to adapt language, build on personal experiences, and empower people to think and apply what they learn. My goal isn’t to be the constant expert, but to help build structures I can support—without carrying them alone.

This is how sustainable change happens. It’s how strong communities work: each of us contributing to a bigger picture. I don’t want to be supermom or the loudest voice in the room.

Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “Leaders are the first to offer their gifts… Leadership is rooted not in power and authority, but in service and wisdom… This is our work, to discover what we can give. Isn’t this the purpose of education—to learn the nature of your own gifts and how to use them for good in the world?”

Writing my book was demanding, but I’m grateful to share it and hope it sparks conversation. I wrote it to be read, discussed, and passed along—not to draw people to me, but to share my gifts. The book is out of my hands, given freely. I trust readers will take what they need from it. Now, I’m ready to put my gifts to good use in new ways.

As I look ahead, I want to join a team or organization that believes work can serve the greater good—and is ready to build something powerful, strategic, and lasting together.

The honest answer to the question of what I do:

I build, I nurture, I collaborate. Whether I’m teaching, building community, or getting my hands dirty in the garden, I look for ways to create something meaningful and lasting. As I step into my next chapter, I’m eager to find a place where these skills and values can help make a real impact.

If you know of an organization, project, or team where this mindset might make a difference, I’d love to connect—or simply be kept in mind for future opportunities. The best work happens when we build together.

Check out my website

Connect with me on LinkedIn

Get a copy of NO MORE MEDIOCRE

This activity gives the speaker an opportunity to assess whether or not they actually like how they’re doing things and why or why not. They can reflect on what led to how things are done, what tasks are attached to that task, and whether some adjustments might make things more efficient.

The observer is given the opportunity to better understand the choices their partner is making in a depersonalized way. They learn about how their partner likes to do things, how they accomplish tasks, what their priorities and preferences are for how things are done.

Once the observation is done, there can be a conversation about what the observer noticed, and they can express understanding to make the speaker feel understood.

Next, you can either switch roles and do the task again with the observer as the speaker, or you can have a discussion about what you both liked about how things were done, what was most important about how it was done, why, and if there are any changes or adaptations you might want to make. This is the time to lay out if there are essential elements of the task that are non-negotiable for either of you. For example, our laundry has to be washed, dried, and taken up from the basement within the same day or the clothes and the appliances can get musty. We have to use specific detergents. We have to have uniforms cleaned and available every day. Aside from that, we have preferences and priorities, but those are more flexible.

One way to approach these kinds of problem-solving, standard-setting, and prioritizing conversations is by considering importance and urgency.

Here’s my think-aloud:

It’s a few days out from the start of the school year. There are piles of unfinished tasks all over the house, and it’s stressing me out. My inbox is full of unanswered emails, and I know if I don’t start chipping away at things, I’m going to end up frozen. Even before I get my brain in gear to organize my thoughts, I give myself a little dopamine nudge by doing SOMETHING, ANYTHING that feels like an accomplishment. This morning, it was taking all of the cups and dishes from around the house and putting them in the sink, then wiping the counters. Immediately, things looked more organized, and I could give myself a little mental gold star for the accomplishment. Then, I sat at my desk and used the importance/urgency framework to help keep me on track.

1. Figuring out what’s most important and urgent. Open browser tabs: email, calendar. Open desktop sticky note.

   1. What’s most important/urgent? My basic needs. I function better in all ways if I’ve tended to those. Have I eaten? Used the bathroom? Hydrated? Taken meds? Do those first. Set alarm for 12 to eat lunch.

   2. Next, my kids are important/urgent. But they’re currently at camp, so less urgent. Revisit after making a work to-do list.

   3. My work is important/urgent.

   4. What’s most urgent for work(tackle these things first)?

      1. Open sticky note. Check cal (today and tomorrow). Check unread Slack. Check unread Emails. Note important/urgent items on sticky note. Answer anything that needs an immediate response. Do any tasks that need to be done in the next 15 minutes. Set alarms for necessary events. Set an alarm for 30 minutes to come back to sticky note work tasks.

   5. REVISIT Kids.

      1. What’s most urgent for them(tackle these things first)? Basic needs for this week: childcare, food, clothes, sleep. Skim calendar through Sunday, nothing out of the ordinary. We have groceries for simple meals, but I don’t know about school lunches for Monday(stick a pin in that). Clothes through the end of the week are fine, but I don’t know about uniforms for Monday(stick a pin in that). We need to move their wake-ups for the next few days to adjust. Change alarm now.

   6. Now I ask if there’s anything else that’s urgent, but a little less important. Make a loose plan. Add alarms or calendars to mark a specific time to tackle or to plan how to tackle. Ex:

      1. General household flow. Dishes need to be done. Fridge and pantry cleared out to prep for restock. Paid with inventory kids lunch foods/tupperware/water bottles. Pick up/tidy. (Will do this at lunchtime. Set alarm for 12:30 and 1:30pm, get as much done as possible within that window)

      2. School prep for next week. Find classroom lists. Revisit school supply piles, organize, identify missing items, label. Check uniform situation: Wash? Buy more? Clear old sizes? Shoes? Socks/underwear? (Will do as a family. Tomorrow evening is best. Add to joint calendar. If we don’t get to it, we’ll do it Saturday.)

      3. Take a quick visual scan around my desk, desktop, living space, notice if anything else is urgent or important, add to sticky note, set alarm, or add to calendar.

   7. Refill my water/coffee, return to work to-do list.

      1. Do work stuff. Write this Substack. Have lunch/do lunch-time tasks. Skim this post. Post it!

I rely heavily on timers, alarms, and notes. Often, I make notes and don’t even revisit them. Just the process of writing them helps me remember.

And that brings me to now! Let me know, does my thought process sound anything like yours? Do you have any strategies or methods that work well for you? How does your brain work? I WANT TO KNOW!

Preorder No More Mediocre: A Call To Reimagine Our Relationships And Demand More.

Get a signed copy from Women and Children Books, Chicago, IL.

And redeem your preorder exclusive resource here(available regardless of where you ordered!)

Too often, the person carrying more of the mental load is the one tasked with bringing things up. They initiate a conversation—whether it’s about what needs to be done, how it should be done, or how they feel about the way the home is functioning. And then, the other party responds with confusion, deflection, or defensiveness. They don’t get it.

This is where genuine curiosity could save everyone a lot of trouble.

Not one party constantly predicting what the other is thinking and feeling, then adapting their communication, making compromises, guiding, giving to-dos, and soliciting support. Not one party Googling “How to have better balance at home?” “How to get my partner to pull their weight?” “How to stop arguing about housework?” Not one party reading books about relationships and communication, then gently (or not so gently) presenting it to the other party. Not the defensive, sarcastic, “WHY is it such a big deal if I don’t get to the dishes on your specific timeline? I said I’d do them, didn’t I?” or “WHY are you freaking out about dinner? Just order something.”

I mean genuine curiosity, as in: “Show me how you like this done. I want to understand. I can’t promise I’ll do it the same way, but I want you to walk me through it.”

I mean genuine curiosity, as in: “I want to break out of this pattern of arguments we’ve been having. I can explain to you how I’m feeling. Can you explain to me how you’re feeling?”

Genuine curiosity involves asking questions and listening with intent, seeking to understand the other person’s inner world. It’s remembering that the way someone likes things done isn’t insignificant. It’s about their values, their stress levels, and their sense of being cared for. It’s deeply personal. Their needs are worth knowing, and understanding them gives you the chance to integrate that knowledge into how you live together.

There are often GOOD REASONS for feeling guarded or defensive in this nag paradox loop. If you come to your partner with curiosity and they deflect, avoid, or blame, it’s not going to feel safe to open yourself up to understanding or being understood. That’s a vulnerable position—a bid for connection, like putting out your hand to be held—and failing to engage can feel like a rejection. A punch to the unguarded gut.

If there’s a pattern of downplaying, blaming, dismissing, and rejecting, no amount of one-sided explaining will solve the problem. If your partner keeps initiating conversations, explaining problems they hope to solve, and you’re not engaged in the pursuit of understanding, you’re forcing them to endure. When the harm is known and no action is taken to fix it, that absence of curiosity—paired with resistance to learning new communication skills or a refusal to self-reflect—can become weaponized incompetence: using a lack of skill, effort, or engagement to avoid responsibility. In some cases, this overlaps with/is a tool of emotional abuse.

Both parties have work to do. Both need to practice communication skills. Ideally, both would reflect on what they need and share it clearly, ask questions when they don’t understand, and balance thoughtful consideration of their own needs and the other person’s. And when they’re not sure what to do… ask for clarification instead of guessing.

For this to happen, we have to make it safe for curiosity to exist. I like one of the graphics I recently saw on Consent.wizardry’s Instagram that illustrates what it can look like to each own the work: “Consent is a shared responsibility.” On one side: “You working on being easier to say no to. Me practicing saying no.” On the other: “Me working on being easier to say no to. You practicing saying no.” I appreciate the simplicity of it. We each need to do our part.

We have to be able to trust each other; otherwise, we end up over-functioning and course-correcting. I won’t ask for help if I’m worried you’re saying yes and resenting me later. If it blows up in my face, I’ll avoid asking for help next time.

My version of this, when it comes to the mental and emotional load of relationships, would be: “Me working on not guessing what you need. You working on telling me what you need.” And: “Me working on telling you what I need. You working on not guessing what I need.” It’s about listening and speaking until you truly understand each other. Asking questions. Seeking understanding.

If you bring a concern to a partner and they respond with accusations of nitpicking, or seem not to understand why you’re upset, pause and consider whether they’re meeting you with curiosity. Ideally, we’d all bring a balanced level of empathy to our conversations. Ideally, when one of us comes to the other with a concern, request, or bid to communicate and connect—and yes, figuring out household equity is a bid for connection—the response would be to ask questions until there’s real understanding.

These patterns of communication—the relationship death-loop of the nag paradox and its slippery slope into weaponized incompetence—are symptoms of a much bigger social and cultural problem.

This inflexibility can be traced back to a culture that values being right over growth. It teaches men, especially, to be “winners,” rigid in their thinking, forcing others to adapt to them. It teaches us that there’s one right way of doing things, that conversations are battles to be won or lost, that we must compete even in our most intimate relationships. These are hallmarks of a culture of dominance—patriarchy, white supremacy. And what maintains the hierarchy of who’s winning now? Inflexibility. An obsession with being right. An unwillingness to budge, to understand, to adapt.

We have to be curious—in our homes, in our relationships. Curious about what other people need, what we need, and how we can help everyone get those needs met. Curious about what brought us to this moment, and how we can transform our relationships and our world to be better—more sustainable, more connected, more just.

Genuine curiosity—and a willingness to integrate understanding into how we live—would solve so many problems in our relationships. It would solve so many problems in our world.

If we took the time to question our beliefs, to listen empathetically and really hear people out. If we rejected the idea that there’s one right way or one universal solution—or even that everyone experiences a problem in the same way. If we met concerns with openness, a willingness to adapt, and a readiness to integrate new understanding into how we live. With genuine curiosity, we could all have more of what we need.

Preorder No More Mediocre: A Call To Reimagine Our Relationships And Demand More.

Get a signed copy from Women and Children Books, Chicago, IL.

And redeem your preorder exclusive resource here(available regardless of where you ordered!)

One piece that drew me in was a simple, muted oil painting of a woman. The portrait, located in the Paintings and Sculpture of Europe gallery, is about 5 feet tall and appears incomplete, especially compared to the other, more muralistic Neoclassical works in the room.

The subject in the image has fair skin and loose, sandy-brown curls, half-pinned up, the rest gently falling over her shoulders. She’s seated in a wooden chair, centered in the frame, her body turned slightly to the left toward a natural light source, while her face and gaze are directed outward, meeting the viewer.

In one hand, she holds the end of a strip of white fabric, part of a larger piece that’s draped softly across her chest and shoulder. Her other hand is pinched as if holding a needle, but it's empty. Her dress, made of the same soft white fabric, features a low neckline that reveals much of her chest. It’s cinched tightly at the waist with a light blue sash, and the long, layered skirt spills over her legs to the floor.

Beside her, in shadow, an infant lies in a small wooden cradle, resting its head on a white pillow. He’s so close it’s almost as if he’s bundled in her skirt. The child’s tuft of hair and the faintest suggestion of a profile are so thinly painted that the wood grain from the mother’s chair is visible through it.

The painting is Madame de Pastoret and Her Son, painted in 1791–92 by the artist Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748–1825). Reading the description, I discovered that the painting is, in fact, unfinished.

Here’s what the placard reads:

The volatile events of the early years of the French Revolution make it impossible to determine with certainty the date of Jacques-Louis David’s warm, fresh portrait of Adélaïde de Pastoret. They also probably account for the portrait’s unfinished state. David, a renowned Neoclassical painter, was at the time an ardent revolutionary; Madame de Pastoret was the wife of a staunch royalist. The sittings must have occurred after the birth, early in 1791, of her son, who is portrayed asleep by her side, and before her brief imprisonment during the Reign of Terror in 1792. Here David completed the stippled, almost monochromatic underpainting but did not create the stark, enamel-smooth surface that is characteristic of his finished paintings. He did not even get far enough to place a needle and thread in Madame de Pastoret’s hand. Nevertheless, this large portrait of unaffected domesticity captures the youthful mother with charm as well as dignity and displays David’s skill as a portraitist. Objecting to David’s revolutionary ideals, Madame de Pastoret (who became the Marquise de Pastoret in 1817) refused the painting during the artist’s lifetime. After David’s death, she had her son, by then an adult, purchase the portrait from the artist’s estate.

My reflex was to judge her, separating myself from her. Through a lens of good and evil, I was good. Smugly, I thought, “Unlike her, I’d choose art over kings.” I stood back and looked again, paying special attention to what was present and what was missing.

It’s a stunning painting by a skilled artist—a portrait of motherhood and domesticity with the baby, the needle, and the thread missing.

The painting stuck with me, and later, I found myself digging into the artist and subject.

I discovered she was a royalist and a philanthropist, particularly in her support for women and children. I read one account that claimed she was inspired to establish a chain of nurseries for the children of working mothers after a chance encounter with an injured baby and the five-year-old left in charge of caring for him while his mother was away. She supported mothers, children, and public health, and likely shaped how she was portrayed in the piece: as nurturing, dignified, and maternal. I did not find any other renderings of her.

Here’s one of her husband, Claude-Emmanuel de Pastoret, a mostly anti-slavery/pro-monarchy moderate, painted by Paul Delaroche.

And here are two paintings of the baby, Amédée-David de Pastoret, as an adult. Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres first painted him at age 32 and again at 66. Amédée-David grew up to become even more conservative than his parents. He was a devoted supporter of aristocratic power structures, once described as “a social climbing sycophant, beset by excessive pretension”(aka a total asshole).

A fuller story complicates the image of mother and child. Despite her care-focused efforts, Madame de Pastoret and her husband aligned with political structures that preserved inequity. They accepted that society had room for improvement. She supported women—but within a system that forced others into poverty and overwork. Her care was conditional, restricted by class and allegiance.

As a royalist, she supported social structures that gave power to the wealthiest at the expense of the vast majority. As a member of a protected class, she opposed the radical, revolutionary changes that aimed to create a more democratic and equitable society. In her home, she played the role of mother. Even in her community, she worked to make care more accessible. But structurally, she opposed it.

The more I read about the painting, the more questions emerged. Was she really the one who rejected the painting, or was it her husband? Was she flattened by history, like so many women before and after her? Was the rift with David personal or political? Both? I don’t know, and I’m not a historian. But eventually I landed on the question that mattered most to me: Do the details of what she believed matter if her actions reinforced harm?

She didn’t rock the boat, even when she knew how badly it needed rocking.

There’s something poetic(ironic, really) about a woman who wanted to be remembered as nurturing, cutting ties with the artist who championed care for all. Her portrait, left unfinished, echoes the limits of selective caregiving.

What did this mother believe would be preserved by protecting her comfort while others suffered? What was so threatening about a world where every child, like hers, had clean clothes and a warm bed? She knew the value of care. But extending that care beyond her class was a bridge too far. The unfinished painting is the consequence of that dissonance.

I can’t help but see the parallels today. Right now, the wealth gap in the U.S. is as bad, if not worse, than it was before the French Revolution (when this painting was started). Most people struggle to access healthcare, housing, and childcare. Jobs are scarce while corporate profits boom. Fascism isn’t just on the doorstep. It’s sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table.

And still, for many who claim to uphold family values and care, true collective safety is unacceptable. This version of caregiving is exclusionary—giving more to some and less to others—and is, at its core, neglectful and abusive.

That’s the tragedy of this portrait. It’s of a mother who wanted to be seen as nurturing, but refused solidarity. Her care had limits. Her thread never passed through the needle. The unfinished painting is an accidental monument to individualism.

Though it was my initial reaction to do so, villainizing her is an easy out.

The reality is murkier. If she were alive today, she would probably consider herself a feminist. She might head a nonprofit for women in leadership—while staying silent on injustice abroad or at home. She might be “socially liberal, fiscally conservative.” She might “love the sinner, hate the sin”. I might have known her. In some ways, as uncomfortable as it is to admit, I am her.

It feels good to see yourself as morally superior to others. That’s part of why so many of us enjoy reality TV—we’d never make those choices in the same position, right? But if we actually want to be better and not just feel better, we have to sit with the discomfort, not just of how we’re different, but of how we’re the same.

I have a different read on the work than I did at first. I see her shortcomings and the irony of her abandonment of the cause. But with its absent needle and thread, the painting also holds up a mirror to my own shortcomings. Like Madame de Pastoret, I see myself as a caregiver. I want to be seen that way. And, like her, I have limits.

I wonder at what point I would abandon the painting? It invites me to look closer, to question my allegiances. Where does my solidarity end? Who am I leaving behind in my daily life? Which connections am I missing? In what ways is my mending empty and my support thin?

We don’t know the whole story behind the painting. But we know it was started and never finished.

To me, the piece and all its context speak to the politics of care. To the tension between the personal and the collective. To the limits we set on empathy. The missing needle and thread represent solidarity. Without them, she had nothing to connect—no way to bind herself to the world. The portrait challenges us to wonder if we can really claim to be acting in care if that care doesn’t extend past our doorsteps.

All children are our children—locally, globally. There is a thread that ties us together: revolutionary love. Radical care, right down to the roots. It’s our job to notice it, pass it through the needle, and stitch a future where we are all held.

I read this on the podcast this week. You can check it (and my terrible French) here!

Except the chocolates are emails for summer camp sign-up (what’s the budget, which friends are going, how do you want your kids to spend their summers, should you just quit your job omg), your nephew’s birthday (what did you get him last year, which stores will wrap and ship, guilt for not seeing them more often), the alarm going off to get the kids—but what are you going to have for dinner? (The little one stopped eating her go-to protein, when’s the last time they had a veggie other than carrots or broccoli, what’s even in the fridge?)

Pummeled by decisions, wading through a fridge with leftovers (how old? Do they need to be tossed? But the trash hasn’t been taken out and if you put the bag on the porch, the squirrel is going to tear it open. Oh, and there’s a rat that’s been hanging out in the garden—how do you get rid of a rat and not a squirrel?) Tripping over the bag of hand-me-downs you meant to give to the neighbor before they moved (now should we store it? Who do we know with a kid in 5T?), it can all create a brain jam, freezing you.

When this happens to me, it’s like my brain jams up with thoughts, and it all gets so loud it turns into white noise. A big WHHHHHSSSSSSSSSHHHH sound that stops me in my tracks.

One of my biggest saving graces when this happens is having a protocol. I’ve set aside intentional time and budgeted brain space to automate, thin out, and identify high-impact tasks that help turn down the whhhhsssshhh sound and

1. help me accomplish what needs to get done and

2. help me re-regulate my nervous system.

I’ve identified that I most commonly get white-noise-brain around clutter and meals.

With clutter, too many things are attached to other things. I pick up one thing and it reminds me I need to do another. My brain tries to streamline as much as possible—making little piles, bringing up an armful of something to the kids’ rooms, then realizing the toilet paper needs to be restocked, then noticing the bathroom bins are a mess, then going back downstairs to finish putting things away like I was initially doing, mentally repeating “toilet paper, toilet paper” so I don’t forget. I try to do it all at once and end up feeling like I accomplished very little. Unsatisfying!

With meals, I feel like I’m constantly running through a mental list of which foods have which nutritional value, which ones the kids will eat, how long each ingredient will take, what they ate at school, what they had for breakfast, what we had to eat over the weekend—and I can’t get my head on straight. I end up defaulting to the same few things and beating myself up if the kids don’t eat it and end up eating a bunch of snacks.

How I’ve combated these trouble spots:

I have a short list of tasks I can do in 5–10 minutes that I know will have an immediate impact on how I feel in my space. (Check out this study that found that women have higher cortisol levels and report poorer mental health when they feel like their space is cluttered, overwhelming, or unfinished.)

I have a short list of tasks that make other tasks easier, like emptying out the dish rack, taking the trash/recycling out, and putting laundry where it belongs.

For meals, my husband and I sat down and came up with a short list of 3–5 restaurants and go-to orders that check our boxes for what the whole family will eat and hit the main food groups. We’ve got a list on our fridge of school lunch ideas, broken down into sections: Protein, Fiber, Crunchy, Calorie-Dense, Fresh. We try to grab something from each section to toss into lunches.

Instead of getting cute/fancy lunch containers, we bought standard pre-divided lunch tupperware that store easily. Multiple sets means not having to lean and dry them each night. Whoever is packing lunches packs two days at a time. The expectations are clear (we’ve got a routine) and we’re aligned on the goal (get them to eat SOMETHING at school).

I’ve done this intentional clarifying with myself by self-reflecting on how I feel when certain tasks are finished or unfinished. I’ve also done this with my family. I know which tasks make my husband’s life easier and help him feel more relaxed. He knows the same information for me. We’ve also identified some tasks that contribute to the flow of the home.

Identifying these things has been such a relief. If my brain turns to white noise, I can look at the list and pick one thing. If my husband sees that my eyes have glossed over and I’m glitching out, he can pick something off the list and knock it out.

Our kids know there are tasks that make our home feel more comfortable and keep it flowing—all without one of us having to scrape together the brainpower to figure out what to do when we’re feeling buried.

This kind of intentional, proactive planning and communication has improved how our entire family feels at home. It’s eased up the emotional and mental labor of planning and communicating, and setting aside the time to connect and align has been an excellent practice in good faith effort. Effectively communicating about what we want done and how we can support ourselves, each other, and our household has helped us bank some positivity to carry us through domestic challenges.

Win, win, win all around.

As a bonus for anyone who preorders No More Mediocre: A Call to Reimagine Our Relationships and Demand More, I’ve created a High Impact Tasks bonus resource to help you get this process started!

To access, just order through your preferred retailer, then submit your order number here!*

Looking for more conversations on care work and culture? Check out !

*dm or email me if you’re outside the US!

In that video, I shared mine: I imagined visiting the Grand Canyon, driving alone for long distances. I imagined visiting Maine, somewhere I’d never been. I wanted to walk along Lake Michigan with my mom and find cool rocks. I wanted to visit a little mountain town and swim in a glacial lake. (Spoiler alert: I’ve since done all of those things.)

I love the outdoors. I spent my childhood summers in northern Michigan. It was quiet there, and I often felt like I was missing out on birthday parties or loitering with other kids my age. But those summers shaped me. Barefoot in the forest, chasing minnows, digging up clams, lounging on the beach. I had a few close friends up there, and we made the most of it—swimming, memorizing Sugar Ray lyrics, making music videos with a camcorder. I even went to a classic movie-style summer camp, with sailing and arts and crafts.

When the world shut down in 2020, I stayed connected to my local gardening group. We were just a few seasons into reclaiming a neglected community plot, and I’d meet up with friends—masks on, spaced apart—to tend the garden. It was one of the few in-person rituals that remained. I couldn’t smell the dirt through my mask, but I felt grounded by it. I also poured my attention into my own backyard. My world began and ended there. I craved space. I craved solitude.

I fantasized about the saltwater air of the ocean. About the sagey, clay-scented air of the desert west.

But it wasn’t just the lockdowns that held me back. I had been longing for that kind of travel for years. I hadn’t spent a single night away from my kids since becoming a mother. The only time I’d been away from my oldest child was when I was in the hospital giving birth to her little sister.

I was reliable. The one always home. A phone call away. My husband traveled often, sometimes getting a call the night before a last-minute weekend trip. His jobs had always been unconventional, demanding. I was glad to be the sturdy support system for our family, but I hadn’t anticipated how much I would give up. How guilty I would feel for needing space. I picked hobbies I could cancel at a moment’s notice. I turned down opportunities, like community organizing leads, because they might run late, and I couldn’t guarantee anyone else would handle bedtime. With my husband’s schedule, I never knew if I could find a sitter in time.

That was my life even before the pandemic: a full-time working parent of two, partnered with someone whose work took him away often. I felt tethered to my roles and to the people who depended on me. I had an internal crisis in the fall of 2019 and got serious about redistributing domestic labor. We read Fair Play, started using the language of the mental load, and divided tasks methodically.

But when the pandemic hit, that stuck feeling got worse—exponentially worse. I wasn’t just tethered by responsibility anymore; I was physically confined to the home that represented all of it.

Eventually, I made a commitment to realign my life with what I needed and wanted. I felt like I had no choice. It was either claw my way out or get buried alive.

One thing that kept me focused was envisioning the feeling I craved: untethered. I imagined standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon. I imagined solitude, the kind I had as a kid in northern Michigan. I imagined the scent of dirt and sage, the sound of wind and crunching twigs, the rhythm of my own breath.

And then, in 2022, I went.

In March of that year, just a few months after I’d closed a chapter on the mediocre version of my life(something I dive into in my book!), I booked myself a rental car and a cabin. I planned a solo trip to the Grand Canyon, something I’d dreamed of for years. It was the first trip I’d taken alone since becoming a mother six years earlier.

Even as I sat on my front steps with my luggage, it didn’t feel real. Every step of the journey—getting in the backseat of a ride share, scanning my boarding pass, finding my gate—was surreal. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to only be responsible for myself.

While I waited to board, I ate an entire bag of candy. No little hands were begging for me to share. When I needed to use the bathroom, I just went. When I landed and there was an hour-long wait to pick up my car, I didn’t panic about entertaining a tired kid. I pulled out a protein bar, queued up a show, and breathed in the dry Arizona air.

I had made myself a throwback playlist full of the pop-punk and Indie ballads I’d screamed along to as a teenager. It was the perfect soundtrack for what felt like a second coming-of-age. Just like when I was 16, ears full of the same riffs, I felt overwhelmed by the sense that my whole life was ahead of me.

I drove for hours, pulling off the highway to snap photos of red rocks and bask in the sun. I barely spoke to anyone. It was glorious. I rolled into the driveway of the little cabin I was staying in shortly after dark and headed right to bed, eager for my adventure the next day.

The next morning, I layered up against the cold, made myself coffee, and set out. At the park entrance, a sign pointed left to the visitor center and right to the North Rim. I hadn’t looked at a map. I had nowhere to be. I rolled down the windows, turned up my nostalgia playlist, and turned right.

Before I could finish a song(At Your Funeral by Saves the Day), the trees cleared, and the canyon appeared. Everyone says this, but it took my breath away. I pulled over, stepped out, and walked up to the edge. The wind stung my face. The scent of sage and dust hit me instantly. And I stood there, breathing it in.

Then I returned to my car and sobbed.

I cried with grief and pride. In the months leading up to that trip, I had left my career, restructured my marriage, and finally received diagnoses for bipolar 2 and learning disabilities that had impacted me my entire life. I understood myself differently. I understood my life differently.

In that rental car, I wept for the version of me who had spent years afraid to take up space. I grieved the time I’d lost. I also felt immense pride for imagining a different life, for doing the hard work, for finally showing up for myself.

That old version of me—the one tethered to the roles of wife and mother, the one who’d had a full-blown identity crisis just a few years earlier—had walked to the edge of the Grand Canyon. A new version walked back to the car.

The rest of the trip was magic. I hiked, took in the snow-dusted views, and let the experience soak into me. When I got back to Chicago, I was genuinely happy to be home. Life resumed—lunches to pack, tiny socks to wash—but it all felt different. Those tasks were still repetitive and never-ending, but they no longer consumed me.

I had returned not just as “Mom” or “Wife.” I came back as Laura—a full person.

That trip was part of a much bigger transformation. I needed to know I could do it. That I could leave and nothing would fall apart. That I could be loved as a pillar in my family and be free to go. That I mattered not just when I was standing by, but when I stepped away.

I was able to take that trip—and many since—because I had people at home who made me feel confident leaving. Family, friends, and a partner who show up for me and for my kids. A support system that made it safe to ask for space and actually take it.

I didn’t get there alone.

It took inner work, yes, but also relational shifts. A change in mindset, yes, but also new habits: clearer communication, asking for help, taking time off. It took practice. It took intention.

And it took imagining a life where I didn’t have to be everything to everyone to be valuable. One where I could return to myself and still belong to others.

Preorder No More Mediocre: a Call to Reimagine Our Relationships and Demand More and get a bonus workbook!

Porch geese became popular in the 1980s, originating from the Midwest, where I’m from. Though our town only had one that I can recall, these cement geese gained a loyal following across the region. They're still popular today, with Facebook groups and Reddit threads dedicated to creative ways of dressing and theming them. I’m in a few of them(though just a lurker for now). As a kid, I proclaimed that when I grew up, I’d one day have a porch goose of my own. I’d plan its outfits, swap them out, and be the person on the block that other people walked past, just to catch a glimpse. It made my day every Sunday. A bookend of something enjoyable, with church in the middle and breakfast at the local greasy spoon on the other side, making the middle bit a little more tolerable.

I’ve always loved kitsch. I love trinkets, knick-knacks, bizarre finds, thrift store art that makes you go, “Huh.” I grew up thrifting, pulling other people’s discarded old furniture off the curb to clean up and give new life. I spent plenty of long weekends at estate sales, flea markets, and yard sales, picking through treasures. I love old stuff. I love hand-me-downs and items with history. I love love love to extend an object’s use, to learn about or imagine the role it’s played in someone’s life. Some of the key pieces in my current home are curb finds that my mom and I rescued 20+ years ago.

I love little wonders and busy, goofy, strange, wonderful objects. I’ve filled my life with them as far back as I can remember.

But when I bought my home, I was more reserved when it came to the front stoop. I kept my kitsch inside. The farthest I went were potted flowers, holiday decor, and a pair of flamingos. Then COVID hit, and 2020 kept us tethered to our homes. Inside, I painted walls and hung wallpaper. Outside, we transformed our front space into a destination. Like that house we drove past on Sundays, I wanted our lot to be something people loved to walk past.

A local teacher was selling yard art he was making: records melted into the shape of flowers, then painted to resemble brightly colored blooms. He walked it down to our home and put it in the ground for me.

We looked up DIY yard art projects, made crepe paper wind socks, and strung glass beads in the window to catch the light. We asked our local gardening group if they had any spare flowers and were gifted flats of crimson snapdragons, splits of bee balm, and a mixed bag of bulbs.

The front garden is busy, bustling with sculptures and recycled art. We’ve got little tin creatures climbing up the front tree, lights, and cascading perennials in pre-loved pots. Gnomes hide in the ivy—the ivy I can’t seem to pull up no matter how many times I chop and trim.

Every summer day for four, going on five, years, I hear toddlers walk past on their little rope chain. Their teachers tell them to say hello to each creature. They look to see if they can spot anything new, laughing and squealing when they find something.

And last summer, I finally got my goose. We hunted at garden centers every weekend for a month and finally stumbled on one. We picked out outfits on crafting websites and got ourselves a winner. She sits proudly on our porch.

The other day, I was talking with someone I knew who asked where I live. I gave them the cross streets and mentioned the goose. “OMG, I drive past there all the time! I love to see if she’s in a new outfit.” I’m a part of someone’s routine. I hope she brings them joy. That goose from 30 years ago was a bright spot for me, so bright that it’s carried on. It’s a bright spot for others. At least for one person. Maybe it bookends something they don’t want to do. At least they get to see the goose. I hope she makes someone’s day easier. A breath of fresh air in her sweet little bonnet, her garden hat, or holding her April Showers umbrella.

She may seem like just a silly sculpture, but she’s also evidence of the way we impact others. She’s evidence of how one person’s joy and expression can ripple outward. She’s a symbol of connection, art, creativity, and the power of silliness. She’s a reminder of the passing of time and the threads that bind us. She’s a monument to the power of the porch, where I sit with my kids on summer afternoons, eat popsicles, and say hi to the folks who walk my block. She’s proof that showing up, being present, and being witnessed is a gift. To see and be seen is a necessary and joyful part of existing.

We love our porch goose. And it’s truly a gift to know others love her too.

This is a pic of me at home. Midday on a weekend. Didn’t change my clothes. Didn’t tidy up. Just sat. A snap of life. Shared here as an invitation. An acknowledgment. I’m incredibly grateful for this online space, the connections I’ve made, the empowerment and encouragement and camaraderie I’ve found.

And I’ve got this book now, No More Mediocre, out in a few short months! I’m struggling with how to use my voice right now. I’m not sure how to show up online. I don’t know how to blend everything I want to say, including getting the word out about something I’m so excited to share. I’m passionate about what I talk about, but I have a different relationship with content making these days. I don’t feel like I can button things up in nearly 2-3 minutes. I’ve been podcasting with every week for over a year and it’s been lovely. We host a weekly drop in gathering online and it’s a highlight of my week(you can join as a sub). But I don’t really want to be boiling down my points and presenting them neatly the way I’ve done in the past. I’ve got more to say. I want to tailor my message to context-something a platform of my size doesn’t really allow for. I have no control over where my videos go and no way of knowing what’s going on for the person who sees it. Everything feels so big. I want to talk and I really want to listen! I want to talk in spaces that allow for shifting and changing and viral videos don’t really allow for that.

So here I am! Inviting you into the mess! Being honest about feeling wobbly on my feet. I don’t want to wait to connect with you all until I’ve got my shit together. I just want to show up. I want to share about this very cool book that I’m excited about and I hope you’ll all read! And I’m excited about the Columbine blooming! And the goldfinches! And the small bunny we saw this morning! And reading books and substacks and texts and listening to voice notes from friends!

What are YOU excited about right now?

And honestly? I panicked a little.

Like many parents, we had entered parenthood with an agreement: to raise our kids outside of rigid gender norms. We wanted them to feel free to be themselves—to express their full humanity without the limiting stories culture tends to slap on children the moment they're assigned “boy” or “girl” at birth.

So when princess mania hit, I braced myself. I didn’t want to project my baggage onto her, but I also didn’t want her soaking up messages I hadn’t had a chance to unpack with her yet.

We’d spent the first few years being really intentional about the media and toys we brought into our home. Puffin Rock, the Koala Brothers, and a steady rotation of the live-action Garfield movie gave us safe ground for a while. We steered clear of gendered plotlines and tropes. We held off on Disney princesses altogether—for their tired story arcs, their racial and gender implications, and the tendency to equate beauty with virtue.

And then 2020 happened.

Suddenly, we were expected to work full-time jobs with toddlers in the house and no childcare. Disney+ became survival.

It started with Moana and Frozen, but it quickly snowballed into full-blown princess culture. (Yes, including Cinderella. Yes, including Sleeping Beauty. Sigh.)

Each Disney princess film brings its own problems—racial generalizations, beauty standards, passivity, coded language around worthiness, and more. But taken together, the messaging is even more insidious.

Here’s what’s baked into a lot of the princess content:

• Beauty = goodness. Villains are almost always marked by a lack of beauty, or by exaggerated features that set them apart. (Big noses, deep voices, disability, fatness—these traits often signal “bad” to a child before the plot even begins.)

• Girls are defined by their proximity to others: fathers, princes, evil stepmothers. Their sense of identity is relational.

• Compliance, silence, and sacrifice are praised.

• The heroines tend to win by enduring, not resisting.

Is it possible to critique all of that? Of course. And should we? Yes. But we also knew our kids weren’t yet ready to deconstruct these messages without support. We wanted to provide context for these stories. We wanted to support their development of a critical eye and counter-feedback so the cultural tide didn’t carry them away.

(If this is your jam, I highly recommend Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein. It's such a valuable deep-dive.)

We noticed something shift once our oldest started full-time daycare. Suddenly, she was coming home with ideas about “boy toys” and “girl toys.” She was spending more time playing with girls than boys, sorting kids by gender, and echoing stereotypes we hadn’t introduced at home.

It felt like we’d lost control of the narrative. Which, of course, we had. That’s how culture works. It’s ambient. It seeps in through peers, teachers, playground games, commercials, packaging, even well-meaning adults who separate kids into “girls’ lines” and “boys’ lines.”

This is one of the reasons we tried to remove gendered language as much as possible at home. I can’t recommend Parenting Beyond Pink and Blue by Christia Spears enough. One takeaway that stuck with me: the more often we use gendered language, the more we reinforce the idea that gender is the most important part of someone’s identity.

How we talk matters

These statements probably sound familiar:

• “You’re such a brave little girl!”

• “You’re such a loving boy!”

• “Smart girl! Funny girl! Sweet girl!”

They’re meant to be empowering. They combat common narratives. But they’re still reinforcing two strong messages:

1. Traits are tied to gender.

2. Gender is the most important trait.

In those examples, gender is repeated over and over. The child hears “girl” or “boy” more than they hear “brave,” “smart,” or “funny.” Our brains register frequency as importance. So a kid absorbs: I’m a girl first. Brave second.

Even well-meaning efforts to challenge gender stereotypes often fall short because they still center gender.

So what do we do instead?

De-emphasize the binary.

• Use gender-neutral language: “kid” instead of “boy/girl,” “friends” instead of “ladies and gentlemen.”

• Talk about traits more than gender: “You’re brave,” “You’re kind,” “You’re so curious.”

• Normalize neutral terms: firefighter, police officer, postal worker, parent, cowpoke, alderperson.

• Ditch the hashtags: #boymom, #girlgang, #mamasboy all send a message that your child’s gender is a central part of your identity, too—which may be hard for them to challenge if they don’t identify with it.

If we want to create safe spaces for LGBTQIA+ kids and questioners, this work starts young. Moreover, regardless of sexuality or gender, we ALL deserve the space to express ourselves wholly, without feeling confined by gendered scripts. We have to show our kids that who they are is more important than how the world labels them. We have to show each other that who we are is enough.

Despite our initial knee-jerk reaction to move away from the world of princesses, when our household became princess-obsessed, we treated it the same way we treat dinosaurs, trucks, animals, or sports: neutral. Just one of many things kids can love, explore, and play with. Regardless of gender.

When our daughter got into princess gear, we didn’t shut it down. We leaned in thoughtfully.

We went searching for books that centered the real traits she loved in those stories: bravery, adventure, kindness, curiosity. We wanted books that weren’t obsessed with beauty or love interests. We wanted characters who ruled in their own right.

That search was surprisingly hard.

So I’ve done the work for you.

Not-terrible princess books we love:

(aka: stories that don’t make you want to throw glitter into the void)

• The Worst Princess by Anna Kemp - An empowering story of a princess who chooses herself.

• The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch – A classic that flips the “rescue me” narrative on its head.

• The Princess in Black by Shannon Hale and Dean Hale – Secret superhero? Yes please.

• Interstellar Cinderella by Deborah Underwood – A space-savvy twist where our girl fixes her own ship and her destiny.

• Not All Princesses Dress in Pink by Jane Yolen & Heidi E.Y. Stemple – Because obviously.

• Princess Hair by Sharee Miller – Short and sweet, and celebrates different hair textures with joy.

Gentle stories about boys:

• Tough Guys Have Feelings Too by Keith Negley – A must-have if you’re trying to raise emotionally literate kids.

• The Storybook Knight by Helen & Thomas Docherty – A dragon-fighting knight who prefers books to swords? Yes.

• Real Cowboys by Kate Hoefler – Quiet, poetic, and breaks the mold beautifully.

Final thought

I was being reductive and shallow in my dismissal of princesses. All imaginative play is an opportunity. It can be tender. It can be bold. It can be brave.

Stories are opportunities, too. To see the full spectrum of who we are, not just what we’re expected to be.

Creative play and storytelling can be an invitation to imagine a world where power is compassionate, relationships are central, and curiosity wins the day.

If this resonated with you, come hang out with me over on ThatDarnChat.Substack.com or join the conversations Crystal Britt and I are having about care work and culture at TimeToLeanPod.Substack.com.

Preorder my book! No More Mediocre: A Call to Reimagine Our Relationships and Demand More

You stay late at work. You answer one more email. You tell yourself you’re “just trying to stay ahead,” “doing it for the family,” or “taking one for the team.”

But sometimes, beneath all that, is avoidance. Avoidance of tension at home. Of resentment. Of the unspoken expectations that feel too heavy to face. Maybe you're trying to dodge a fight. Or the dishes. Or the disappointment.

And when you do that, your boss wins.

CEOs in the U.S. make nearly 300 times what the average worker earns. Every extra hour you give, especially the unpaid, emotionally charged ones, feeds a system designed to keep you exhausted, disconnected, and overextended. The more you pour yourself into work, the more you're told you're "valuable." But only as long as you produce.

When you over-invest at work, you divert the energy that could be used to maintain or grow your relationship and give it over to the systems. When you rise and grind to avoid working through conflicts, you put your precious energy toward the machine that grinds us up. The machine where billionaires get richer and the cost of living becomes increasingly unsustainable.

Billionaires love it when we avoid home. These f*ckers get richer when we bury ourselves in work. They coerce us into giving up the hours and energy we could be spending with each other instead. They demand our efforts. Out of fear. They steal the skills we could be using with one another, to truly be present at home. To navigate conflict. To nurture. To grow. The billionaires win when we don’t see value in the work —emotional, mental and physical— that creates and maintains our lives.

We uphold the status quo when we avoid working through conflicts and practicing communication skills at home. We uphold the status quo when we refuse to see the value in maintaining our home lifes and relationships.

We’re coerced in so many ways.

We are tricked into believing our worth is defined by what we produce.
We are guilted into working harder—then shamed when we burn out.
We are convinced that satisfaction is around the next corner, just one raise, one promotion, one vacation away.
We are forced to trade every ounce of time and energy we have in the face of a collapsing safety net:
Skyrocketing cost of living. A brutal job market. No universal healthcare. Services ripped out from under us.

This system isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as designed. One of its most effective tricks is convincing us that home is a problem.

Home is not the enemy.

If home feels like an obligation factory where resentment bubbles under the surface and everything depends on one “default” partner, it’s not surprising we try to escape.

Avoiding conflict doesn’t solve it.
Throwing yourself into work won’t create intimacy.
You can’t hustle your way into connection.

The Radical Act of Staying

What if the most revolutionary thing you could do… is come home?

Not just physically, but emotionally. To really be there.

To learn how to tolerate conflict—not just survive discomfort, but work through it.
To practice nurturing connection instead of controlling outcomes.
To build secure attachments instead of avoiding emotional labor.

This is soft work. Soft like tender. Like courageous.
It asks us to feel deeply. To stay in the room when things get hard.
To listen. To repair. To choose care, again and again.

That softness is power.
It’s the foundation of trust, intimacy, and liberation.
And it’s how we reclaim what capitalism tries to take from us.

Want a place to start? Read these:

These books offer frameworks, tools, and language to help us navigate conflict, restore connection, and build real community, starting at home:

1. Set Boundaries, Find Peace by Nedra Glover Tawwab
   A super practical, no-nonsense guide to setting and keeping boundaries. If you’ve ever struggled with saying no or felt overwhelmed by other people’s needs, this book will help.

2. All About Love by bell hooks
   A powerful, personal look at what love really means—and how our culture teaches us all the wrong things about it. It’s eye-opening, grounding, and full of hope.

3. We Do This ’Til We Free Us by Mariame Kaba
   A collection of essays and conversations about care, accountability, and imagining a world without punishment. It’s about justice, but also about how we show up for each other when things get hard.

4. How We Show Up by Mia Birdsong
   This one is all about community—how to find it, build it, and be part of it in real, connected ways. It’s an invitation to stop trying to do life alone.

5. Love in a F*cked Up World by Dean Spade
   A short but powerful book about practicing love as something active, not just a feeling. It’s about how to keep showing up for care and connection even when the world feels like it’s falling apart.

You can’t outwork a broken system.
You can’t buy your way into belonging.
And you can’t build intimacy by avoiding it.

But you can start learning. You can practice showing up.
You can build something at home that feels safe, equitable, and whole.

And that kind of care?
It’s contagious. It ripples outward.
It challenges power. It changes lives.
It’s how we build the world we actually want to live in.

If this resonated, consider sharing it with someone who might need a nudge toward softness. Or leave a comment and let me know what you’re learning about showing up at home.

“Things aren’t that bad.”
“At least they’re not like my ex.”
“At least they don’t hit me.”

You may be saying these things to yourself, but they came from somewhere. Maybe you’ve even heard it from others: friends, therapists, family members. Although well meaning, in the face of discomfort, encouraging you to compare the shit you’re dealing with to how much worse it could be solves nothing. It keeps you stuck. It communicates:
You should be grateful for less.

Rather than comparing our relationships to what we think is ideal, we often compare them to what’s worse. And when you’ve lived through instability, inconsistency, or outright harm, something barely functional can start to look like love.

But just because it’s better than bad doesn’t make it good.

In this short video, I talk about the insidious way mediocrity and emotional abandonment are excused because they’re not blatantly violent.

Watch it here

“At least they don’t hit you.”

That phrase encourages us to minimize our needs, to over-function, to take on the emotional and logistical labor of a relationship without reciprocity.

It says:

• Their refusal to participate in parenting or planning? Understandable.

• Their prioritizing of rest, leisure, or autonomy at your expense? Normal.

• Your exhaustion and emotional isolation? Acceptable.

Because at least you’re not being hurt physically.

We often expect less emotional attunement, relational awareness, and self-reflection from men as a part of the cultural script. But these dynamics show up in relationships of all kinds, regardless of gender or sexuality. It’s not about who someone is, it’s about what we’ve been taught to tolerate.

Mediocrity thrives when we normalize neglect. Disconnection looks like peace when you’ve only known chaos. And familiarity feels like safety when you’ve grown up bracing for instability.

This is how we stay stuck. When we’re complacent. When we misuse comparison and let it lull us into complacency. A failure to imagine how good things could be is how the bar stays so low.

Let’s demand more.

The show Kevin Can F**ck Himself does a great job covering this dynamic.

Image Description: Still image from the show Kevin Can F**ck Himself. A woman with a tired, blank stare and unkempt hair, holding a laundry basket and an empty mug.

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Want more of these conversations?
On Time to Lean, my co-host Crystal Britt and I unpack dynamics like invisible labor, weaponized incompetence, gender scripts, neurodivergence, and what it really takes to build equitable relationships.
Subscribe or listen wherever you get your podcasts: timetoleanpod.substack.com

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💬 Have you ever told yourself, “It’s not that bad”? What made you stay? What helped you start to want more?

Have you seen the videos?

The woman proudly holds up a finished puzzle—delicate, intact—showing off how she managed to slide the whole thing into one piece. She beams, imagining how it might hang on the wall. And then, her partner walks over and punches it. Pieces fly. She flinches.

Or the wedding clip: the groom shoves cake into his bride’s face—so hard it’s in her eyes, her hair. Her expression shifts. She tries to laugh, but something about it doesn’t land. Maybe she’s embarrassed. Maybe she’s hurt. But the crowd is already laughing.

The comments?
“LOL”
“Classic.”
“It’s just a joke.”

That kind of casual cruelty is everywhere. And we’ve been taught to laugh along.

Wrapped in humor, these moments get framed as harmless, but they infiltrate our closest relationships.
They shape what counts as “not a big deal,” what we’re allowed to feel hurt by, and when we’re expected to just “lighten up.”

If it feels bad, it feels bad.
If it hurts, it hurts.
If you don’t like it, you don’t like it.

Your feelings aren’t right or wrong. They’re information.
Your feelings are not the problem.
The normalization of this cruelty is.

When you go to your partner and say,
“I don’t like it when you do that. I feel hurt,”
and the response is:

“Other people think it’s funny.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
“It’s not that serious.”
“You’re the only one who has a problem with it.”

It’s erasure.

It doesn’t matter what other people feel.
You’re right there.
You’re expressing yourself.
That matters.
When we care about each other, that’s the bottom line.

So how do we push back on a culture that teaches us to shrug off harm?
That teaches us to laugh along when it stings?

We start by looking closer.
We ask: Who’s the butt of the joke?
Are we laughing at ourselves—or at someone who had no say?
Are we brushing it off because it’s easier than confronting the discomfort?

A critical eye can change culture.

Refusing to laugh when the guy at work makes a lazy dig at his wife.
Sitting in silence when someone tells a story meant to humiliate their partner “for laughs.”
Interrupting the story. Changing the subject. Pulling your face into neutrality instead of a chuckle.

Small things.
But powerful ones.
They shift the air.

Sure, some people like to be teased.
Some relationships thrive on sarcasm and roast-style love.
But consent, respect, and attunement are the difference between intimacy and injury.

We’ve been told not to take things so seriously.
But maybe it’s time to ask why.
Who benefits from brushing it off?

It’s usually not the person being laughed at.
Not the one biting their tongue.
Not the partner who walks away from the dinner table embarrassed again.

Jokes that normalize cruelty aren’t just jokes.
They’re more than that.
They uphold power.
They punch down.
They force the harmed to measure their anger, dilute their hurt, just to stay safe.

Minimizing harm protects the person doing it.
But naming it?
That’s where the power is.

Did this resonate? Check out this video over on IG.

Or this one, originally posted in August of 2021. (Slide 5. Forgive me, I’m still figuring out how to embed)

You know what’s worse than doing it all yourself? Getting the kind of “help” that makes things harder.

It looks like this:

You ask for support, and the task gets done halfway—or so poorly you have to redo it. “I’ll handle dinner,” but they ask you where you keep the pots and pans. They feed the kids, but leave a sticky mess across the counter and a sink full of unwashed dishes. Bedtime’s “covered,” but the routine gets tossed, and now everyone’s overtired and cranky. You’re sick, but still up packing lunches. They’re on the couch resting. When you ask for help (through clenched teeth), they wonder why you didn’t ask earlier. Why you aren’t just laying down too. Suddenly, it’s your fault for being overwhelmed.

But who would have done it if you didn’t?

How would the house run without you overseeing, delegating, giving directions—or just doing it all yourself?

Half-assed help can be more harmful than no help at all. It’s emotionally exhausting to push past your own frustration just to ask nicely. To temper your tone while correcting something that feels like common sense—like not putting an empty cereal box back on the shelf, or understanding that “taking out the trash” doesn’t mean leaving it on the back porch to leak.

Weaponized incompetence shows up in all kinds of ways:

Carelessness with no regard for the impact.

Doing a bad job to avoid being asked again.

Settling for the bare minimum, knowing it doesn’t meet the needs of the people you live with.

It’s sloppy, inconsistent, and leaves one person stuck in constant vigilance. That’s not support—it’s a setup. It’s more work, not less.

Support should feel like relief, not risk.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up with care and intention. If you wouldn’t get away with that kind of effort at work, why should it fly at home? If you wouldn’t trust someone else to handle it that way, why should I be grateful for it?

This kind of “help” reinforces inequality. It sends the message: If you want it done right, do it yourself. And we know where that road leads—burnout, resentment, and disconnection.

So what’s the alternative?

We talked about this in a recent Time to Lean post on checklists and home culture, and it bears repeating: the antidote to this isn’t perfection—it’s good faith effort and enthusiastic collaboration.

That doesn’t mean loving every chore or lighting candles while you fold laundry. It means buying in. It means being interested in how your household works, how your people feel, and what needs to get done. It means putting energy toward building something together—not just doing tasks, but co-creating the life you share.

Enthusiastic collaboration looks like curiosity. Willingness. Ownership. It’s not about who “helps” who—it’s about a shared commitment to the culture of your home.

If we agree that something matters, treat it like it does. If you say I matter, treat me with consideration and care.

If any of this resonated, this episode from Time to Lean might interest you.

when is weaponized incompetence emotional abuse? from Time to Lean

Check out this video from 2021. It’s one of the first(and most viral) videos I made on the topic of weaponized incompetence.

Video on Weaponized Incompetence

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If you know me from Instagram, TikTok, or Time to Lean, you’ve probably seen me talk (or yell) about domestic labor, the mental load, weaponized incompetence, and the quiet dynamics that can make home feel like a pressure cooker.

But I think it’s time for a little backstory.

I’ve been online for a long time. Friendster, LiveJournal, DeviantArt, MySpace, Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram—and then in 2020, I ended up on TikTok. At the time, I was a full-time educator. When schools moved to virtual learning in March of 2020, I had a 9-month-old, a 3-year-old, and a full-time job. My husband and I were both still employed, which was a privilege—but it came with its own challenges. Two kids at home (one who couldn’t yet walk), no childcare, and no playdates meant we were constantly tag-teaming parenting and work.

Like so many, I started spending more and more time socializing through my phone. After bedtime, my husband would often work late, and I’d scroll—through dance trends, funny animals, social commentary, and a sea of videos from mothers trying not to lose their shit.

There was so much to be angry about. And I was especially furious watching the desperate conditions caregivers were navigating get turned into “relatable” content—framed as funny, cute, or quirky.

So I started poking fun back at the “satire.”

I threatened to flip a table if I saw one more video of a woman celebrating her husband for holding the baby while she took an uninterrupted shower. I got loud about the harm of asking men to be “better helpers” when they were doing a shitty job on purpose. I initially called that behavior “weaponizing competency,” and it struck a chord.

I noticed a pattern that kept showing up in sitcoms, memes, comment sections, viral videos, and real-life conversations. It was a repeated, often gendered dynamic where someone avoided responsibility by doing a task poorly—or not at all. People laughed it off or minimized it, and the go-to advice was always the same: teach men to be better helpers.

That’s when I refined the term to “weaponized incompetence” and launched the hashtag #weaponizedincompetence to call out those deeply normalized behaviors. The concept wasn’t new. It’s been around for ages— in homes, workplaces, between housemates— but pointing out how it’s been normalized, identifying it in trending videos, refusing to laugh at it, and drawing attention to its impact brought it to light in a new way.

My early TikToks—like this one, this one, and this one—quickly went viral. And right around that same time, people started searching.

I kept going—calling out the “funny” videos, naming the harm, and leaning all the way into the accusation that I was humorless for not laughing. Was I a miserable shrew—or righteously enraged?

Google searches for "weaponized incompetence" spiked right as the conversation took off online

You can literally see the shift in interest as more people started looking for the language to describe what they were experiencing. The phrase started showing up everywhere—in comment sections, conversations, and mainstream media, including InStyle, Wondermind, Upworthy, Scary Mommy, and The Everymom.

You can see how the conversation has evolved in this playlist, where I continue to unpack the behavior, challenge the narratives that excuse it, and explore what’s actually needed to create equity at home.

Since then, my work has grown far beyond that original term. I’ve collaborated with Fair Play to create curriculum for young people on the mental load. I’ve hosted a retreat and countless workshops, developed tools and resources, and partnered with brilliant, cross-disciplinary thinkers to make care work visible, valuable, and shared. I’ve coached people through changing long-standing patterns in their homes and their relationships. And I’ve kept coming back to this central truth:

Care is culture-shifting.
It’s essential. It’s not extra.
It’s the backbone of every home, workplace, system, and community—and we’ve been taught to devalue it for far too long.

I built my platform on connecting the dots between care work in our homes and the way it’s treated in culture— especially in popular media. Over the years, I’ve explored domestic equity in partnerships and across culture, media, and history. I talk about equity. Burnout. Emotional labor. Unpaid work. Why asking for help shouldn’t feel like a full-time job. How we show up for each other—and why, and how so often, it feels like the world is resting on the shoulders of the domestic and care workers. Because it is.

Now, I’ve written a book. It’s called No More Mediocre, and it’s coming out in just a few months(preorder here and get an exclusive resource!). It’s about breaking free from the nag paradox, calling out weaponized incompetence, and building relationships and homes rooted in equity, clarity, and real connection.

This Substack is where I’ll share more about what went into the book, what didn’t make it in, and what I’m still learning and unlearning every day.

I don’t have a posting schedule. I’m not trying to build a content machine here. I’m just looking for a space to write more freely—to share older videos with added commentary, new essays, stories, reflections, and the bigger-picture ideas behind the work I do.

If you’re tired of doing everything—and being expected to do it quietly—you’re not alone. I’m glad you’re here.

More soon,
Laura