My boyfriend and I started dating nine years ago when we were 15. And, since we moved in together last year our relationship has been pretty great... except for one niggling problem: I often feel like I’m babysitting a man-child.

Although we technically ‘share’ chores (I cook and he washes up), I plan our meals, remember relatives’ birthdays, replace the toothpaste when it runs out and if I want him to do anything – literally anything – I have to ask.

This continuous cycle of thinking, planning and organising domestic life is known as the ‘mental load’, or emotional labour. It’s seen as a feminist issue, because it tends to disproportionately fall on women in relationships with men, and those with families. Women are taught from a young age to keep everything in the home under control, while men are often raised to believe domesticity simply isn’t their thing, regularly faking incompetence to get out of it.

Considering I work the same hours as my boyfriend, this mental load creates an infuriating imbalance between us. Coming home from a long day at work and begging him to pick up his dirty socks from the floor definitely isn’t good for my mental health, or our relationship.

“Women often do more than their fair share because they get fatigued by the fight for equality and sometimes just want a tidy, clean house and a peaceful life,’ says relationship coach and author Sam Owen. “Long-term, this can lead to unnecessary resentment.”

Sure enough, I can already feel that resentment growing. It’s as though he thinks his time and headspace is far more precious than mine. So, in a bid to save my relationship (and my sanity), I decided to go on mental load strike for a week. No planning, no organising, no reminding, and no housework unless I’m asked.

If I dropped the mental load, would he pick it up? He was adamant he’d be strong enough to, but there was only one way to find out…

Monday: He just about manages ready meals

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I leave work, and as usual he texts me asking what’s for dinner. I reply with a shrug emoji (liberating) and he offers to buy ready meals. I think this is a bit of a cop out but then he buys the posh curry I like, so I can’t complain.

Then he peels off the plastic instead of piercing it, and I realise I’ve probably babied him for too long if he genuinely doesn’t know how to put a ready meal in the microwave. I fear this will be a long week.

Tuesday: Everything is dirty

I’m out for dinner tonight, but he buys himself pizza and leaves the packet and dirty plate on the table. I really want to ask him to clear it up, but remember this is a highly-important experiment and I must suffer for the cause.

I also need to do the laundry as I’m desperately running out of knickers, but pretend I don’t notice. It’s clear I’m still carrying the mental load but am unable to act on it, which is frustrating considering he gives zero shits.

Wednesday: He does the laundry (sort-of)

Hurrah! He also needs to do laundry, and even buys more washing tablets. The only problem is his technique for hanging clothes involves throwing them onto the airer at a one metre distance and hoping they land.

I resist the urge to re-hang them, but when I go to bed I can’t stop thinking about how creased they’ll be tomorrow. Perhaps this says more about my neurosis than it does about him?

Thursday: I break the rules



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Okay, I had to. I noticed mysterious bites on my back and panicked we might have bed bugs, and because he was home earlier than me I asked if he could change the sheets. Sometimes health and safety comes first. (Update: not bed bugs, just a rash).

He offers to make chilli – the only dish he can make - for dinner, but ends up faffing for two hours so I cook it because I’m too hungry. When I get into bed I notice he’s put the sheets on inside out, so I get up to change them. Everyone needs a cheat day, right?

Friday: He forgets to set his own alarm

He isn’t at work today so plans to come and meet me for lunch. It gets to the hour before we’re supposed to be meeting and I message him. Turns out, he didn’t remember to set an alarm. “I usually just wake up to your alarm,” he says. Sigh.

When I get home, there are papers all over the bedroom floor from where he’s decided to do some ‘organising’ and given up halfway through. I step over them and refrain from saying anything. I’m considering ending our relationship, but then he brings me chocolate and we’re back on track.

Saturday: We run out of toilet roll

I notice we’re running out of loo roll and simply mention this to him (I don’t ask, obviously, that’s against the rules). This is how the conversation goes down:

Him: I’ll get more when we’re on the last one.

Me: But we’re on the last roll now… do you mean the last sheet?

Him: Yes.

Me: But what if we use the last sheet in the middle of the night?

Him: I don’t poo in the middle of the night.

I realise this is the difference between us. While I’m constantly thinking about both of us, he only ever thinks about himself. And unfortunately I do poo in the middle of the night, so I’m slightly screwed.

Sunday: I get really hangry

I really, really need more loo roll, plus something carby and meaty to nurse my hangover, but he’s sleeping peacefully and ignoring all my nudges. If this was the other way around, he’d suffer in silence until the food-planning, mental-load-shouldering goddess (me) awakes from her slumber to sort everything out.

But I don’t have the willpower to wait for him, so I head to the shops and there’s a fry-up waiting for him when he wakes up, and a stack of loo roll in the bathroom. I’m saddened to admit I wasn’t able to last the week.

What did I learn?

Despite my boyfriend’s assessment that this week was a success (“We survived, didn’t we?”) it’s clear that while I mostly dropped the mental load, there was no one there to pick it up.

The problem was that he just didn’t care if we ran out of things, or ate crap for dinner. The only one who suffered was me. He’s my favourite person in the world, but his inability to share the emotional labour does make me seriously worry for our future together. It’s exhausting enough now as 23-year-olds with no real responsibilities – imagine what it’d be like if we threw babies and school runs and loft renovations into the mix? An absolute nightmare.

"His inability to share the emotional labour does make me seriously worry for our future together"

I’ll just have to keep fighting for domestic equality between us, so we can run off into the sunset and live happily after. He needs to un-learn everything he’s been raised to believe about his 'role' as a man, which will take a lot longer than a week.

For now, I’ll continue to put feminist literature under his nose, explain how happy it makes me when he picks up the slack, and loosen my own grip on the household in the hopes that eventually we can carry the mental load together, hand in hand. And if that means I have to suffer through a poo in the night with no toilet roll, so be it.



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