The Unseen Work of Regulating Others

Why noticing and managing other people’s emotions is both expected and criticized.

You walk into a room and instinctively assess how everyone is doing, picking up on tone, mood, and subtle cues. You adjust your voice, timing, and delivery based on what’s happening around you. You know what’s coming and anticipate people’s reactions. You may not even realize you're doing it, but you're attuning to others and keeping things steady.

You absorb tension so others don’t have to, and you soften what people say by laughing or by changing the subject. You reframe something someone said so it doesn’t hurt others, and you try to keep the conversation balanced so everyone feels included. You maintain eye contact when someone is vulnerably sharing, or ask someone else’s opinion when you notice they haven’t talked in a while.

It’s a quiet, thoughtful caretaking that’s hard to name because it doesn't look like effort from the outside. You hold steady so others have room to fall apart.

Sometimes you step away from your own needs and downplay what you’re feeling to maintain harmony. You set aside what you want because someone else’s feelings seem more important in the moment. This can all feel generous, kind, even absolutely necessary. But over time, it can lead to losing track of your own emotional reality—especially if you’re measuring the day by whether everyone else is okay, and forgetting to ask if you’re okay, too.

You know what burnout is, and you don’t want to abandon yourself. You’ve done the therapy, read the books, practiced mindfulness. You’re wondering if it’s related to perimenopause—or maybe you’re in full-blown menopause. You’ve reread Codependent No More more than once—hell, it lives on your nightstand. You’ve been told you do these things because of early trauma—because there was a time when being hypervigilant made you feel safe.

You also know that when someone else is upset, the urge to step in isn’t just about helping them—it’s about settling your own discomfort. And since you were young, you’ve been trained to notice, to care, to be nice. You’re told not to do it, expected to do it anyway, and still held responsible for doing it.

Others rely on you doing it, even if they don’t realize it. People get used to you emotionally absorbing a situation and come to expect it. And when you’re quiet, or you don’t absorb something uncomfortable, they feel the difference. They will ask what’s wrong or tell you that you seem “off.” And if you say you’re drained or just feeling quiet, you might hear, “Why didn’t you just say something?” Again, it falls on you—you should have done more.

In Restoring Our Girls, I talk about how emotional labor is not only expected, but also expected to remain invisible. Young girls are praised for being kind, thoughtful, and emotionally aware, but they’re not taught that these skills take energy—or that it’s okay to talk about or feel overwhelmed by the toll they take. There’s an expectation to hold the space, keep the peace, and notice how others feel before even recognizing what’s happening within yourself. And when you're good at it, it’s taken for granted.

Every day, the headlines, legislation, and lack of meaningful action makes it clear that girls and women are less valued, less important, less central. You see it in who gets to speak, whose stories are taken seriously, and whose health and needs are prioritized. And still, women are expected to carry and smooth over the emotional weight of families, friendships, workplaces, and communities.

You’re told by books, podcasts, and even the people you love that you don’t have to do this anymore—that you don’t have to show up this way. You’re overthinking it and you’re making things harder than they need to be. You are told to care less, worry less, set better boundaries. But when you do stop, or say less, or let yourself feel your tiredness or sadness, the discomfort it creates in others is inconvenient. You’re no longer playing your invisible part, you’re now the reason something feels off.

If this feels familiar, consider sharing it with someone who may not fully understand what you do. It’s okay to want this to be seen. It’s okay to help the people you love understand what you do and how you feel. It’s a good thing to talk to our kids about what emotional labor and emotional regulation look and feel like, and how they quietly shape our days.

Bringing things to light is part of what gives us back our sovereignty and humanity, and it helps us notice—and question—why we do what we do. It reminds us that we’re allowed to feel, to name what’s hard, and to know it’s okay to need a break. It’s okay to want someone to help regulate you and to notice when you need support.

What others see as your grace is really the steady, quiet work of developing and using your emotional intelligence. And what looks easy or normal from the outside is actually a test of endurance. While this may be how you’ve learned to care for others, it’s just as important for others to learn how to care for you, too.