Let Capable Adults Be Capable

The surprisingly hard part of putting down the mental load.

I have a dirty confession.

Sometimes when I say I want help, what I actually mean is:

Not only do I want you to do it. But I want you to do it exactly the way I would do it.

At the time I would do it.

Without me having to remind you.

And ideally, without me having to explain any of this to you in the first place.

Which, as it turns out, is a fairly specific definition of help.

I didn't always realize this about myself.

For a long time, I thought I was simply the person who had to keep track of everything. And I was particularly salty about it.

I remembered the appointments. I knew what we needed from the grocery store. I noticed when something was running low. I anticipated what the kids would need before they needed it. I thought ahead. I made lists. I planned.

And because I was good at those things, I did more of them.

Then I got frustrated that I was doing more of them.

It's a pattern I see in a lot of capable women.

We become incredibly good at carrying things.

And then one day we look around and wonder why we're carrying everything.

Sometimes you really are doing too much

I want to say this part clearly because conversations about over-functioning can go sideways quickly.

Women are not imagining the mental load.

In many families and relationships, responsibilities really are distributed unfairly.

There is a difference between someone helping with the grocery shopping and being the person who notices you're almost out of milk, keeps track of what everyone eats, makes the list, figures out when someone can get to the store, and then remembers that your kid needs cupcakes for school on Friday.

There is the task.

And then there is everything required to make the task happen.

Women often carry a disproportionate amount of that invisible work.

So this isn't an argument that women simply need to relax their standards and everything will magically become fair.

Sometimes someone else really does need to step up.

Sometimes you need to have a difficult conversation.

Sometimes responsibilities need to be redistributed.

And sometimes the system your family is operating under genuinely isn't sustainable.

But there's another side of this conversation that I think we need to be willing to look at, too.

Because sometimes help arrives.

And we don't let it help.

The dishwasher problem

You probably know this one.

Someone else loads the dishwasher.

You open it.

And immediately think:

Why would anyone put that there?

So you move a bowl.

Then a plate.

Then three cups.

And suddenly you've reorganized the entire dishwasher.

Maybe your way genuinely fits four more dishes.

Maybe it is objectively more efficient.

Congratulations.

You have won Dishwasher Tetris.

You have also just communicated something without saying a word:

There is a right way to do this, and you don't know it.

I wish I could say I've never done some version of this.

I absolutely have and not even just with dishes.

With cleaning.

Schedules.

Parenting.

Packing.

Planning.

Household routines.

There have been plenty of moments when someone else was doing something perfectly adequately and I felt an almost physical urge to intervene because I knew a better way.

And here's the annoying part:

Sometimes I did know a better way.

That's what makes perfectionism so convincing.

It isn't always wrong.

The question is whether being right is actually worth what it costs you.

Many years ago, during my first marriage, we went to see a marriage counselor. Halfway through listening to the two of us complain about each other and defend our respective positions, the counselor stopped us.

“Do you want to be right, or do you want to be married?”

I remember that question because, honestly, I really did want to be right.

And I'm pretty sure I had a very compelling case.

But that wasn't the question.

The question was what my need to be right was costing me.

I think about that conversation differently now. The marriage ultimately ended, but the question stayed with me because it applies to so much more than marriage.

There are a lot of things I can be right about.

I can be right that my way is more efficient. I can be right that loading the dishwasher differently would fit three more plates. I can be right that something would have gone more smoothly if everyone had just listened to me in the first place.

And I can still ask myself:

What am I trying to accomplish here?

Because sometimes being right gets you exactly what you wanted—and costs you the thing you actually wanted more.

Maybe that's peace.

Maybe it's connection.

Maybe it's allowing someone else to feel competent.

Maybe it's simply not carrying one more thing.

Perfectionism has a way of convincing us that if there is a best way to do something, we are somehow responsible for making sure it happens that way.

We're not.

Competence can become a trap

There is a strange downside to being highly capable.

People learn that you will handle things.

And you learn that you can.

Eventually those two things reinforce each other.

Something needs to be done.

You notice first.

You know how to do it.

It will probably take less time if you just handle it yourself.

So you do.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Then eventually you're exhausted and thinking:

Why does everything fall on me?

Sometimes the answer is because the people around you have become accustomed to you taking responsibility.

But sometimes the answer is also:

Because I keep taking it.

That's harder to admit.

I don't say that with judgment. I say it because I've had to recognize it in myself.

Overfunctioning can look incredibly responsible from the outside.

It can even feel loving.

I'll take care of it.

Don't worry about it.

It's easier if I just do it.

But if you're always stepping in, reminding, correcting, anticipating, rescuing, organizing, and finishing, the people around you don't have much room to develop their own systems.

You become indispensable.

Which can feel good.

Until it doesn't.

Letting go means giving up control of the outcome

I think this is the part we don't talk about enough.

Delegating a task isn't the same as relinquishing responsibility for it.

You can ask someone else to do something while still carrying the entire task in your head.

You remind them.

You check whether they've done it.

You think about when they're going to do it.

You worry they won't do it.

You offer suggestions about how they should do it.

Then you check the result.

Technically, someone else did the task.

But you never actually put it down.

To truly hand something over, you have to tolerate uncertainty.

And—this is the brutal part—you often have to tolerate someone doing it differently than you would.

Maybe your partner doesn't buy the exact brand you would have bought.

Maybe your teenager forgets something and experiences the natural consequence.

Maybe dinner is simpler than what you would have made.

Maybe the towels are folded weird.

Maybe someone schedules the appointment later than you would have.

Maybe your child goes to school wearing an outfit you would not have chosen in approximately one million years.

Can you let it happen?

Not when there's a genuine safety issue.

Not when something truly matters.

But when the consequence is simply:

This isn't how I would do it.

Can you leave it there?

Perfectionism has a way of disguising itself

For years, I thought high standards were just part of who I was.

And they are.

I like things done well.

I like my home a certain way.

I care about details.

I notice things.

There is nothing inherently wrong with any of that.

But at some point, I had to acknowledge that some of my standards weren't just high.

They were exhausting.

There were seasons when my expectations for myself, my family, and my home exceeded what was actually reasonable or sustainable.

And because I had created the standard, I felt responsible for maintaining it.

That's where radical acceptance has become important for me.

Not giving up.

Not deciding nothing matters.

Just asking:

What does this actually need to be?

Does the house need to be spotless?

Or does it need to be functional and comfortable?

Does dinner need to look a certain way?

Or do people need to eat?

Does my teenager need to remember everything because I reminded him twelve times?

Or might forgetting occasionally be part of learning to remember?

Does my partner need to handle something exactly as I would?

Or does it simply need to get handled?

Those are very different standards.

And one of them gives everyone a lot more room to breathe.

Sometimes resentment is asking us to look at the system

When I feel resentment building now, I try not to immediately treat it as evidence that someone else is doing something wrong.

I get curious.

What am I carrying right now?

Did someone actually ask me to carry it?

Is there a responsibility that needs to be redistributed?

Have I clearly communicated what I need?

Am I doing something because it genuinely matters—or because I have decided there is only one acceptable way to do it?

And maybe most importantly:

What would happen if I stopped?

That question can reveal a lot.

Sometimes the answer is: everything would fall apart.

Okay.

That's useful information.

Something needs to change.

But sometimes the answer is:

Someone else would probably figure it out.

Maybe not immediately.

Maybe not gracefully.

Maybe not the way I would.

But they would figure it out.

And that is useful information, too.

Other people need room to be capable

There's another reason I've been thinking about this.

When we constantly anticipate other people's needs, we can accidentally deprive them of the opportunity to experience themselves as capable.

Adults need to solve problems.

Teenagers need to forget things.

Partners need to develop their own systems.

People need the dignity of being trusted to handle their own lives.

That doesn't mean we never help each other.

Of course we do.

Relationships are built on care, generosity, and interdependence.

But there is a difference between supporting someone and quietly assuming responsibility for their functioning.

One says:

I'm here if you need me.

The other says:

I'm going to make sure you never have the opportunity to need yourself.

That isn't what most of us intend.

But over-functioning has a funny way of getting us there.

The goal isn't to care less

I don't want to become someone who doesn't notice.

I don't want to stop being thoughtful.

I don't want to lower every standard or shrug at things that genuinely matter to me.

I like being capable.

I like being someone people can depend on.

But I no longer want capability to mean automatic responsibility.

Those aren't the same thing.

Just because I can do something doesn't mean it belongs to me.

Just because I can do it faster doesn't mean I should do it.

Just because I would do it differently doesn't mean my way is the only acceptable way.

And just because someone I love is struggling with something doesn't mean I need to rush in and remove the struggle.

Sometimes love looks like helping.

Sometimes love looks like stepping back.

Sometimes protecting our own capacity requires allowing the people around us to use theirs.

So I'm practicing something new.

I'm trying to notice the moment when my brain says:

I'll just do it.

And pause.

Is this actually mine?

Does this actually need my intervention?

Is this important—or do I simply have a preference?

And if another capable adult is already handling it, can I tolerate the discomfort of letting them?

Even if the dishwasher is loaded wrong.

Even if dinner isn't what I would have made.

Even if they forget something.

Even if their solution would never have occurred to me.

Because maybe putting down the mental load isn't only about convincing other people to pick things up.

Sometimes it's about recognizing that they've already picked something up—

and resisting the urge to take it back.