I picked up Rose Hackman’s Emotional Labor because, even after decades of living with its demands, I’m still trying to understand why it feels so hard to name, justify, and revalue the work of caring—especially when it costs you so much of yourself.
Reading this, I kept thinking about a conversation I had with my MA advisor 25 years ago. I was trying—fumbling, really—to articulate how caregiving was starting to consume my life. How I couldn’t figure out how to balance my own ambitions with the expectations I felt from my family, culture, and heritage. I assumed he might understand. He also cared for his elderly widowed mother, and I thought maybe he’d offer some recognition or at least help me feel less selfish for wanting to put my own life first.
Halfway through that conversation, though, I realized he literally did not understand what I was talking about. He could afford to outsource most of the emotional and logistical weight of caregiving—something his social position as a single, white, cisgender man made more accessible. The invisible supports he could rely on were exactly the ones I couldn’t.
That’s why Hackman’s book resonated so deeply. She doesn’t get lost in circular arguments—she moves confidently from definition to diagnosis to solution. Her argument is clear and galvanizing: emotional labor isn’t a private, individual failing or a personal virtue. It’s structural, it’s gendered, and it’s systematically devalued because it’s feminized.
One of the most important aspects of this book is its consistent attention to intersectionality. Hackman shows how marginalized communities—Black women and women of color, trans women, nonbinary people, immigrants, and queer women—have always borne disproportionate demands for emotional labor. She also dismantles the myth that these groups don’t have the time or energy to think about this issue. In fact, they often experience it more intensely, because it compounds with racism, classism, and other oppressions.
I wish Hackman had extended this same depth of analysis to the experiences of disabled people. There’s very little here about disabled or chronically ill individuals, who are often expected to perform enormous amounts of emotional labor just to survive or to make others comfortable. For me, that felt like a missed opportunity.
Still, the prose is clear and engaging, and she doesn’t resort to jargon or lose her focus. Though the book is long, it’s very readable. Just take your time.
In the end, Hackman’s message is simple and radical: pay women for the work they already do, the work you already benefit from. Value caregiving as labor, not as an inexhaustible, invisible gift.
Highly recommended for readers of feminist theory, intersectional theory, queer theory, social theory, or anyone trying to make sense of the invisible toll caregiving extracts.