Unpaid Emotional Labor: My Evolving Perspective

About three or four years ago, I began hear­ing the term unpaid emo­tion­al labor among co-work­ers of col­or, women, LGBTQIA+ col­leagues, and oth­ers from diverse com­mu­ni­ties. As a woman of col­or who has worked in the cor­po­rate world for more than two decades, my first thought was, “Well, that just goes with the ter­ri­to­ry.” I believed that if peo­ple were going to learn and grow in cul­tur­al­ly diverse spaces, some­one had to help them understand—and that some­one was often me.

I saw it as my respon­si­bil­i­ty to invest that “unpaid emo­tion­al labor” in order to answer ques­tions, explain my per­spec­tive, and guide oth­ers toward greater awareness.

But in recent years, I’ve been on a dif­fer­ent jour­ney, one of deep­er understanding.

While research­ing the term, I came across a 2019 Harvard Gazette arti­cle by Manisha A. Schifellite, which explained that emo­tion­al labor was first coined in 1983 by soci­ol­o­gist Arlie Russell Hochschild. She defined it as “jobs that require peo­ple to man­age the feel­ings of oth­ers at the expense of their own. Consider, for instance, how child-care work­ers and teach­ers must main­tain a cheer­ful, pos­i­tive tone with their charges and par­ents, regard­less of how they feel.”

Over time, this def­i­n­i­tion has expand­ed to include cul­tur­al con­texts. The part that stands out to me most is “…man­age the feel­ings of oth­ers at the expense of their own.”

When I think about unpaid emo­tion­al labor in my own life, I have count­less exam­ples. Early on, I felt it was my duty to answer ques­tions from peo­ple who were gen­uine­ly curi­ous about my iden­ti­ty or lived expe­ri­ence. I still believe there’s val­ue in that. After all, I don’t expect some­one to ful­ly under­stand a real­i­ty they’ve nev­er lived with­out hear­ing direct­ly from those who have.

But the unpaid part aris­es when I am not edu­cat­ing out of mutu­al curios­i­ty but rather adjust­ing myself to make some­one else feel com­fort­able sim­ply because my pres­ence chal­lenges them.

Here’s an exam­ple: In lead­er­ship meetings—where I am often the only per­son of col­or, or one of only a few women—I’ve had moments where I share an idea and am met with silence. Then, a male col­league repeats the same idea, and sud­den­ly it’s “bril­liant” and sparks a dis­cus­sion. The emo­tion­al labor here is in decid­ing: Do I change my deliv­ery to sound more “mas­cu­line”? Do I fit in by adopt­ing the norms of the group? Or do I now invest ener­gy in edu­cat­ing the team about uncon­scious bias, mansplain­ing, or dis­mis­sive behav­ior, not because they’ve asked to learn, but because they are unaware and uncomfortable?

This isn’t lim­it­ed to men. I’ve seen female lead­ers, deeply ingrained in patri­ar­chal norms, dis­miss or over­look con­tri­bu­tions from women like me with­out even real­iz­ing it.

As a woman of col­or, unpaid emo­tion­al labor can be espe­cial­ly exhaust­ing when my very exis­tence prompts dis­com­fort. I’ve had my cre­den­tials ques­tioned, my qual­i­fi­ca­tions doubt­ed, my pres­ence sec­ond-guessed. The labor of con­stant­ly prov­ing I belong, explain­ing myself, or mak­ing oth­ers feel at ease can be exhausting.

And yet, I still hold onto the phi­los­o­phy that shar­ing my lived expe­ri­ence can help us grow togeth­er. The dif­fer­ence now is that I draw a line: I will not do the work of mak­ing your dis­com­fort dis­ap­pear. Sometimes that dis­com­fort is the most valu­able thing that can hap­pen; it can spark self-reflec­tion: Why am I uneasy around this per­son or group? Where does that come from?

Out of that kind of hon­est intro­spec­tion, mine and oth­ers’, I’ve seen gen­uine curios­i­ty blos­som into under­stand­ing, empa­thy, and last­ing growth.

I no longer believe I must man­age the feel­ings of oth­ers at my own expense. I now rec­og­nize that emo­tion­al labor looks dif­fer­ent across cul­tures, and that my respon­si­bil­i­ty is to remain true to myself, to speak up for what I know is right, and to advo­cate with­out fear.

I can do this respect­ful­ly, hon­or­ing every­one involved, with­out remov­ing the dis­com­fort that can lead to real change. This jour­ney has taught me to rec­og­nize my own feel­ings of invis­i­bil­i­ty and to meet them with courage. I am learn­ing to sit with that dis­com­fort, and to raise my voice anyway.