The Weight We Can’t See - The Mental Load
Before we even open our eyes in the morning, the list begins.
What’s for breakfast.
Who needs to be out the door by when.
Is the permission slip signed.
Did we switch the laundry.
Who’s running low on medication.
That quiet, relentless checklist never really stops. It’s the hum beneath every moment - the mental load that so many parents, especially moms, carry alone.
But this month, that hum feels heavier.
The Hidden Weight of Hunger:
Across Michigan - and right here in Jackson - families who depend on SNAP benefits aren’t receiving them this month. In a season that’s supposed to be about gratitude and food and gathering, so many are quietly calculating what’s left in the pantry.
The mental load isn’t just about remembering school schedules or grocery lists - it’s about stretching what’s left to feed the people you love. It’s figuring out how to make a meal out of what you have. It’s pretending not to be hungry so your kids can eat first.
And yes, there are food banks, and those do help. But help doesn’t always mean relief. Food banks run out. They have limited hours. Sometimes they’re across town, or open when you’re at work. Gas costs money. And even the volunteers - doing their very best - are tired. The stress trickles down. People wait in long lines. Tempers rise. It’s survival energy, not celebration.
When we talk about the mental load right now, we have to include the weight of hunger - the fear, the planning, the guilt, the math of how to make food stretch.
If you are one of the few families not touched by food scarcity this month, please don’t look away. Be the person who steps in. Help fill the gap.
Because the truth is, this isn’t someone else’s problem - it’s all of ours.
Taking on the mental load - together.
I know families who keep a table of free food in their front yard, restocking it when they can.
I know congregants and parents collecting cereal cups so local kids can eat on the weekends (First United Methodist Church is hoping to gather 500 cups this month).
I know offices starting small food pantries for the clients and families who walk through their doors.
This is what community looks like when the system fails. It’s not flashy. It’s often inconvenient. It’s love in the form of peanut butter and cereal and soup cans.
And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us right now - to take on this mental load together. To stop assuming that everyone else is “fine.” To look around and notice who’s tired, who’s hungry, who’s holding too much.
Because even the most qualified, educated, hard-working people among us are struggling to find stable work or meet basic needs. If you don’t know someone in that position, I beg you: open your eyes. The struggle is everywhere - you just have to see it.
The Two-Hour Exhale:
That’s why our monthly Village Collective gathering exists.
For two hours, we create a pause.
Dinner is handled. The tables are set. The kids have crayons, blocks, and friends to play with. You can breathe. You can eat a meal that you didn’t have to plan, shop for, or clean up after.
These nights don’t fix everything - but they interrupt the cycle.
They prove that the world doesn’t fall apart when you stop holding it all for a little while.
They remind us that being cared for is not a luxury - it’s a basic need.
When you walk through the doors, you don’t have to pretend you’re not tired or stressed. You can show up exactly as you are. And for two hours, you’re fed—in body and in spirit.
The Cost and the Gift:
It’s never easy to get out the door. To wrestle kids into coats. To show up when you feel empty. But that inconvenience is the cost of community - and community is what helps us breathe again.
We can’t erase every family’s hunger or anxiety. But we can hold the space where those burdens are shared, even just for a night.
That’s what The Village Collective offers: not perfection, not productivity - just the sacred pause.
A table where everyone belongs.
A meal that doesn’t ask for anything in return.
A reminder that being enough is already more than enough.
