By Laura Hadzik, Chair
There’s a widespread assumption that women find it easier to talk about their feelings, so they need less encouragement to open up than men. In some ways that’s true. Women are often encouraged from a young age to connect, care for others and express emotions more openly. But I think there’s an important difference between being comfortable expressing emotions and feeling safe enough to be vulnerable.
Being able to talk about feelings doesn’t necessarily mean you feel comfortable admitting you’re struggling, asking for help or saying, “I’m not coping.” In reality, many women become very good at processing everyone else’s emotions while quietly sidelining their own needs.
There’s also an assumption that if someone is talking, smiling, checking in on others and holding everything together, they must be okay. But a lot of women are incredibly capable at functioning while struggling. We can articulate feelings, support others and appear deeply connected, while still feeling isolated ourselves.
We spend a lot of time encouraging men to open up, and that’s incredibly important, but sometimes in doing so we overlook women because we assume they’re already doing it. Being emotionally articulate and feeling genuinely supported are two very different things. When we assume women are “fine” because they’re talking, we can end up mistaking emotional capability and competence for emotional wellbeing. Those things aren’t the same.
Within the bus, coach and community transport sector, I think there can be additional pressures too, particularly in environments where women are still underrepresented. There’s often an unspoken pressure not to be the person who confirms stereotypes. You don’t want vulnerability to be interpreted as weakness, uncertainty or lack of capability, so you end up balancing authenticity with the feeling that you’re operating under more scrutiny.
Even among other women, that pressure doesn’t always disappear. When there are very few seats at the table, people can sometimes feel they need to protect their place rather than reveal where they’re struggling. That’s not because women don’t support women. It’s because scarcity changes behaviour.
A lot of women also become experts at functioning while depleted. We become the organiser, the listener, the problem-solver, the emotional anchor, and people get very used to seeing us in those roles. The danger isn’t always dramatic burnout overnight either. More often, it’s the slower version, where your own wellbeing gradually moves further and further down the priority list because everyone else’s needs feel more urgent.
Eventually, taking care of yourself starts to feel selfish rather than necessary. By that point, many women aren’t asking themselves, “How am I coping?” They’re asking, “How much longer can I keep going like this?”
I also think one of the least talked about struggles is loneliness, particularly the kind that exists even when you’re surrounded by people. Women in supporting roles often become the person everyone confides in, relies on or leans against. They’re checking in on everyone else, making sure things run smoothly and carrying emotional responsibility for teams, drivers and families, yet very few people stop to ask who is supporting them.
Because women are often perceived as naturally nurturing or emotionally capable, there can be an assumption that they’re coping simply because they’re still functioning. That can create a very quiet kind of isolation where you’re constantly connected to everyone else’s needs while feeling increasingly disconnected from your own. It’s not dramatic and it doesn’t always fit the mental health narratives we typically tell, but I think it’s far more common than people realise.
For many women in traditionally male industries, there’s also the added pressure of constantly feeling like your credibility is something you have to earn and keep earning. When you’ve spent years proving your capability, resilience and competence, asking for help can feel risky, not because you don’t value support, but because you worry it changes how people see you.
The irony is that the people who look the most capable are often the people others least think to check on. Strength can become a role people assign to you, and eventually one you feel obligated to perform.
If I could change one thing about how the industry, and society more broadly, approaches women’s mental health, it would be this: we need to stop treating support as something people only receive once they reach breaking point. Too often we respond once someone visibly struggles, once performance drops or once there are obvious signs.
I’d much rather see cultures where people are asked how they’re doing before things become difficult, and where support isn’t linked to crisis. More than anything, I’d like us to stop assuming that capability means capacity. Someone can be performing well, supporting everyone around them and appearing completely in control, while still carrying far more than anyone realises.
As Mental Health Awareness Week draws to a close, perhaps the most important thing we can do is stop assuming the people holding everything together are always okay.
