When Your Plate Is Full and No One in Your Family Sees You: the Emotional Overload in Parenthood
By KJ Bennett Therapist for Parents
There’s a moment I hear about often in therapy—especially from parents, most often women, though not exclusively.
It sounds like this:
“My plate is completely full… and somehow, I’m still expected to carry more.”
“Everyone sees I’m struggling—but no one steps in to help.”
“I feel invisible in my own family.”
This moment isn’t just about logistics or household management. It’s not just about who didn’t take the trash out or who handed you the blue cup instead of putting it in the sink themselves.
This moment is about feeling unseen. Unconsidered. Alone.
And while in couples therapy, we might explore the relational dynamics that are contributing to this imbalance—patterns of emotional labor, communication breakdowns, or the legacy of gender roles—today, I want to speak to you, the individual.
Because when you’re in the thick of it—your plate full, your nervous system on high alert—it’s your body that’s trying to get your attention first.
The Somatic Signals: What Your Body Knows Before You Do
When your nervous system perceives threat—whether it's a real crisis or the slow, simmering pressure of daily overwhelm—it responds automatically.
If we paused in that moment and dropped into your body, what might we find?
A tightness in your chest
Shallow breathing or breath-holding
Tension in your shoulders or jaw
A sense of heat, urgency, or even numbness
These aren’t just “stress responses.” These are invitations. Your body is speaking on your behalf. It's saying:
“I’m at capacity.”
“I need a pause.”
“I can’t keep going like this.”
So often, we override these signals. We reach for the blue cup. We put the plates away. We manage, again. And every time we override, we subtly reinforce the belief:
“Everyone else matters more than me.”
The Emotional Landscape: What's Beneath the Overwhelm?
Somatic therapy invites us not just to notice the physical sensations, but to ask:
What emotion lives here?
Overwhelm often masks deeper, more tender emotions:
Resentment: “I’m doing this alone, and no one seems to care.”
Grief: “I thought parenting would feel more supported than this.”
Loneliness: “I’m surrounded by people, but I feel invisible.”
Fear: “If I stop, will everything fall apart?”
All of these feelings are valid. None of them make you weak or failing. They’re signs of your deep capacity to care—and the cost of carrying too much for too long without being seen.
What Would It Be Like to Choose You?
The shift doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be one small act of self-honoring.
The next time your body signals "enough"—instead of reaching for the blue cup—try this:
“My plate is full. I can’t take that on right now. Who’s got this?”
It may feel unfamiliar or even scary. Especially if you carry the fear:
“If I step back, no one else will step up.”
And maybe that fear has been proven true in the past. If so, that’s another layer to work through—with compassion. But often, what’s just as true is this:
When we stop over-functioning, we create space for others to step in.
And if they don’t? Then we get clarity. And clarity is a gift, too.
You Deserve to Be Seen
Parenting is relational. But your nervous system, your body, your emotional experience—those are yours. And they deserve your attention just as much as anyone else’s needs.
The first person who needs to see you… is you.
So today, ask yourself:
What is my body trying to tell me?
What emotion might be living in that tension?
What boundary do I need, even if it's just for this moment?
You don’t have to keep pushing. You can pause. You can ask for help. You can say no. You can choose you.
And if that feels hard—you're not alone in that either.
A Gentle Prompt for Reflection
The next time you feel overwhelmed,
pause—just for a moment—
and ask yourself:
What would it look like to honor myself in this moment?
Let the answer be simple. Let it be small. Let it be enough.
An Invitation to Be Supported
If something in this resonated with you—
If your body softened, or your heart quietly whispered, “That’s me…”
Then I invite you to pause again. To soften a little more.
To remember: You don’t have to carry it all alone.
There is space for your experience.
There is room for your exhaustion, your longing, your truth.
This movement toward self-honoring can be tender.
It might stir resistance, grief, or old patterns.
That’s okay. That’s part of healing.
If you’re needing support as you navigate this—
as you learn to name your needs, listen inward, and return to yourself—
I’d be honored to walk with you.
You're welcome to reach out.
Let’s start where you are. Let’s go gently.