Behind Every Successful Mother: The Invisible Workforce

I landed in New York City in my final year as a teenager. It wasn’t a planned transition, nor was it part of some grand vision I had for my life. My plan was simple: visit my mother, spend time in the city, and return home to my island in the sun. But plans change, and sometimes life has a way of redirecting us before we even realize what’s happening.

New York was not unfamiliar to me. I had visited several times since the age of eleven, tagging along on summer trips, soaking in the towering buildings, and the fast-paced streets. But visiting a place and living in it are two vastly different experiences. I never imagined that I would stay, that I would build a life here, that this city of concrete and ambition would become my home.

My mother had already made that choice a year before I arrived. She had spent years as part of the invisible labor in one of the more prominent hotels back home in the Caribbean. Then, in an abrupt decision, she left her job without notice and moved permanently to Brooklyn. She sent me the plane ticket she had promised—with the expectation that I would stay. And for a while, I didn’t think I would. I had just completed my A levels. My results weren’t terrible, but they weren’t what I had hoped for either. The idea of starting fresh in New York wasn’t something I had given much thought to, at least not seriously.

Four months into my stay, I booked a ticket to return home. But as my departure date approached, my family members encouraged me to stay. New York, they said, had more opportunities. I listened, and I stayed. That decision set me on an unexpected but deeply formative journey—a lengthy career as a domestic worker.

Finding My Place in the City

The first few years were a blur of short-term jobs. I worked with various families, often in temporary positions. The work was demanding, but it paid the bills. Then, in 2006, I applied for a position that would become my longest and most stable role.

The job was with a family living in the Financial District of Manhattan. I remember getting off at the Brooklyn Bridge stop on the 4 train, walking to the building, and nervously announcing myself at the concierge desk. The family, an expectant couple in their third trimester, lived in a cozy one-bedroom apartment. They were warm and welcoming, and the interview went well. But ultimately, they decided to hire someone else—a candidate recommended by another family in the building.

I moved on, taking other jobs, but a few months later, I received a call from the family. Their initial hire hadn’t worked out. They needed someone more engaging for their son. Was I still available? Without hesitation, I accepted. Not only did I need the job, but I was ready for something more permanent. I had worked in daycare centers and afterschool programs before, but I was exhausted by the chaotic environment. I longed for a role where I could give a child my undivided attention.

The Work of Care

My responsibilities were straightforward but significant. I took their son to mommy-and-me programs, arranged playdates, prepared his meals, and did his laundry. I became his world outside of his parents. He was a delightful baby—blonde-haired, blue-eyed, with the chubbiest cheeks I had ever seen. He was always in the high percentile for height and weight, and as he grew, he became more energetic, more curious, and more demanding of my time and attention. About eighteen months later, another son joined the family. They kept me active, strengthened my core (quite literally), and filled my days with laughter and exhaustion in equal measure.

While I focused on their care, their mother was building her career. There were days when I arrived at work and had no idea what part of the world she was in. She was ambitious, driven, and successful, and my role as her children's caregiver gave her the freedom to pursue those ambitions. For almost seven years, I was a constant presence in their home, a steady figure in their sons' lives, and an integral part of their daily routine. I was paid well for my work, which was not always the case for many domestic workers. I was fortunate in that regard.

One day, I saw her on my television screen. Her career had placed her in the public eye for a long time, but this time, she was aligned with one of the most influential women. It was surreal—this woman whose children I had cared for, whose home I had spent years in, was on my screen. I was proud of her, but it also made me reflect on the unseen labor behind the success stories of so many women like her.

The Invisible Workforce

I am one of the many Black women and women of color who have, in one way or another, contributed to the careers of women with means and access. We are the nannies, the housekeepers, the caregivers, the ones who ensure that their homes are in order, that their children are well cared for, and that they have the support they need to climb the ladders of success.

Every time I see a Hollywood reporter ask a celebrity mom, "How do you do it all?" I cringe. The question itself ignores the reality of the hidden workforce behind the illusion of effortless success. It is a question rooted in privilege and ignorance, a question that disregards the labor of the women who made it possible for these high-achieving women to "do it all."

The erasure of domestic workers is not new. It is woven into the fabric of societies that rely on our labor while refusing to acknowledge its value. It is a profession that has long been undervalued, underpaid, and overlooked. And yet, without us, many industries would not function as smoothly as they do. The very women who are celebrated for their achievements need the unseen labor of women like me, because the fact remains, they can't do it all alone.

A Life Reimagined

When I think about my journey—from a teenager who planned only a brief visit to New York, to a domestic worker who spent years caring for the children of others—I see resilience. I see the sacrifices my mother made, the choices I had to make, and the unexpected paths that led me to where I am today.

Would I have imagined this life for myself? No. But life is rarely what we plan. I built something here. I found purpose in the work I did, even if society often failed to recognize its worth. And while my story is my own, it is also the story of so many women who leave their homes, their countries, their dreams behind to build new lives in foreign cities, taking on roles that are essential but rarely acknowledged.

We exist. We work. We matter. And our stories deserve to be told.

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