We live in a world obsessed with debt, I'm not just talking student loans and mortgages, but also technical debt - how startups vibe code now and ruin it for the actual engineers that come on-board later. Or management debt - where a company prioritizes short term success only to die five years later.

But there’s a kind of debt that’s even more corrosive: emotional debt. It’s what happens when you fake “I’m fine” so many times, you can’t afford the interest anymore.

Emotional Labor is Killing Us, and We’re Still Smiling Through It

Modern women are drowning in it.

We bottle up rage at work to seem "professional," swallow resentment at home to seem "grateful," and choke back sadness online to seem "relatable" but not "too much."

We’ve turned ourselves into customer service agents for our own lives, smiling, nodding, dying inside.

I know, because I’ve done it.

A couple of years ago, at my friend's baby shower, after an exhausting breakup and a layoff, I plastered on a pink dress, smiled for photos, and gave a toast so sparkling you'd think I was winning at life. I was surrounded by friends and IG-worthy backdrops and champagne and selfies! Inside? I was one wrong look away from breaking down.

Later, while removing my makeup back at home, I actually broke down, and didn't even understand fully why. Then, over time, I realized: performing fine was costing me my actual wellbeing.

One common thing about adulting that no one talks about is that life turns into a performance.

The Rise of 'Aesthetic Sadness', and Why It’s Making Us Miserable

What makes it worse is that even sadness got a brand guide.

Instagram and TikTok have turned grief into a photoshoot: muted beige bedrooms, tear-streaked selfies edited to perfection, Pinterest boards titled “Romanticizing My Depression.”

This isn’t healing. It’s performance. And when sadness is only acceptable if it’s aesthetic, we never really process it , we just repackage it for likes.

You’re not supposed to curate your breakdown. You’re supposed to survive it, even if that means you skip talking about it on or off social media.

You Can’t Self-Care Your Way Out of a Broken System

And then there are people who (including me) think, or are believed to think, that it'll all be okay with retail therapy or a weekend getaway. Hot take: your Sunday night bubble bath isn't going to dismantle capitalism.

I mean yeah, a sheet mask, a yoga flow, a five-minute gratitude journal will fix your day. But not the next day. Not the reality that most of us are running ourselves into the ground just to barely survive.

Self-care was supposed to be a part of your lifestyle. Now it’s a bandaid we slap over structural burnout and call it “wellness.”

The system is sick. You’re not broken for feeling broken inside it.

Let Women Be Angry: The Emotion Society Still Won’t Allow

From boardrooms to childcare, an angry woman is just unacceptable. People make fun of us for being angry - there are standup comedy show segments about this. Why?

People write stories about the femme rage, it's a proper genre in books. You want to really freak people out? Be an angry woman. We’re allowed to be sad (soft, manageable), stressed (productive!), exhausted (relatable!). But angry? That’s dangerous.

When women own their anger, they topple industries (hi, #MeToo), change laws, and rewrite family legacies. That’s why society keeps trying to shame it out of us.

Why Are Women Still Expected to 'Manage' Men’s Emotions?

And then there are men. We're always expected to do the right thing and in a fight, always be the bigger person, be gentle, forget and move on, shut up. In dating, in marriage, at work, the unspoken rule lingers: women are emotional janitors.

Because we're more mature. We’re supposed to soothe bruised male egos. De-escalate tantrums. Decode silences. While grown men are allowed to yell and throw things and make it all okay later with a sorry. We're supposed to cover it up and accept them. Buffer male incompetence with endless empathy.

And when we don’t? We’re "cold." We're "bitches." We're "difficult."

Enough. Men are grown. Their emotional illiteracy isn’t our problem to solve.

Emotional labor is labor, and we’re allowed to clock out.

No, I’m Not 'Too Sensitive.' You’re Just Emotionally Constipated.

There are also the friends who don't help. The next time someone tells you you’re "too sensitive," hear what they’re really saying: "Your honesty makes me uncomfortable, and I’d rather silence you than sit with my own dysfunction."

Sensitivity isn't weakness, it's data. It's truth.

The real problem? Half the world is emotionally constipated, and they'd rather gaslight the people who notice than do the uncomfortable work of healing.

Stay sensitive. Or better yet, ignore and move on.

The Cult of Politeness: How Being 'Nice' Became a Modern Cage

Politeness used to be about basic kindness. Now it’s a weapon.

It’s what keeps women silent when they’re harassed.It’s what forces us to "play nice" with coworkers who steamroll us. It’s what tells us to smile when we're dying inside.

Politeness has become a cage, a pretty little trap that ensures we never disrupt, never demand, never truly live.

But being rude might just save your soul.

The Emotional Debt

"Emotions that are pushed aside don’t disappear; they just gather interest," said my psychologist Dr. Thema Bryant.

Translation: you don't skip your pain, you defer it. Until it slams you later, panic attacks, burnout, insomnia, random crying at that dog food commercial.

Research backs this up:

▸ A 2021 study in Emotion journal found that emotional suppression correlates directly with higher anxiety, depression, and lower relationship satisfaction.

▸ Meanwhile, a 2020 report from the American Psychological Association notes that women report "consistently higher stress levels" than men, and are significantly more likely to cite emotional suppression as a coping method.

The sick part? Society praises this. It rewards women who can hold it together while falling apart. You’re “strong.” You’re “inspirational.” You’re hashtag goals.

No one claps for the woman who cancels dinner, ugly cries, says “I need a damn break.” She’s “dramatic.” She’s “too emotional.” She's not "having enough fun".

Here’s my hot take: If you’re not sometimes seen as “too emotional,” you’re probably living a half-life.

Silence isn't strength; it's unpaid labor. Emotional debt is a silent tax women are charged every damn day, for daring to have full, human feelings.

It’s time to default.

Cry publicly if you need to get it over with. Rage when rage is warranted. Say “I’m not okay” without rushing to soften it with a joke or apology when someone asks you in the metro. Take a selfie without makeup during that bad day. Let people be uncomfortable around your realness. Their discomfort is not your bill to pay.

Faking fine is over. Emotional bankruptcy is freedom.

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