It starts with a discussion in the car, prompted by the washing up. It wasn’t done that morning. The laundry needs hanging up, too, and someone has forgotten to make the packed lunches. We need to pay the dog walker, fix the broken bath panel, work out why our toddler has started waking in the night and book our youngest in for a haircut. Then there’s a half-planned playdate to confirm, meals to plan and all those family WhatsApp group messages that need a response.

Historically, women in heterosexual relationships have carried the heft of the mental load, also known as cognitive household labour. This is the behind-the-scenes work, often intangible, that goes into running a household. It’s not just the jobs: it’s thinking about those jobs. The true extent of this work, invisible and embedded as it is, can be hard to define; an iceberg of tasks concealed beneath waves of tradition, expectation and stereotypes. It’s not just the doing, it’s the remembering, the realising, the anticipating, the assigning. It’s not just making packed lunches, it’s getting food in, making sure it’s nutritious, checking the lunchboxes are washed and ready. It’s knowing the toddler has gone off bananas and the baby can’t eat chunks of apple yet. This work is unpaid, unseen and, often, unappreciated.

You may assume, though, that as modern couples strive to split domestic responsibilities 50:50, the mental load is borne more equally, too. Research, however, suggests otherwise. According to a US study published last year, mothers still take on seven in 10 mental load tasks. Even women without children or a partner can be lumped with the load: a 2020 Australian study found single women over 45 with no children take on more responsibility for ageing or disabled relatives than any other group their age.

Back in the car, my partner, Stuart, and I are batting tasks back and forth, both determined to strike a winner. That the rally goes on for so long is, I think, testament to the fact that our partnership is rooted in equality. But, as we play mental load tennis, I’m struck by how much he does – and thinks about – that I, in all honesty, give scant consideration to: when we should paint the house; what is happening to interest rates as we approach the end of our fixed-term mortgage; whether delivery drivers scoff at our unmown lawn. I can’t help but wonder: is his mental load equal to – or, whisper it, greater than – the one I have spent years buckling under?

By the end of the journey, we have decided upon an experiment: a mental load swap. He takes on mine for a week, and I his. We opt for half-term: he is a teacher and I am on maternity leave, so we will both be at home. The goal, we agree, is not to catch each other out but to explore, with open minds, how our other half lives.

Our first stumbling block is how to launch the challenge. Do we write down our loads and do a formal swap? Or do we revolt, downing tools to see if our partner picks up the slack? Option one appears to negate a large part of the experiment: is a written listsidestepping the “mental” side of the mental load? Can we really be said to have swapped loads if we are working from bullet points written by the previous load-bearer? But going on strike, though tempting, doesn’t feel in tune with the spirit of exploration. Is there much to be gained from spending a week keeping tabs on what has been missed?

Writing it down, then, seems like the better course of action. On my list is food shopping, meal planning and cooking, endless thinking about parenting and organising activities. On his list are the finances, infinite house jobs and looking after the dog. We hand over our documents and head to bed with more than a little trepidation about the week ahead.

Monday

Chloë: It is said you should walk a mile in another man’s shoes in order to see things from his perspective. Instead I do the first day of the experiment wearing my partner’s down jacket. So many of his jobs involve going outside. Fortunately, the weather is gloriously cold and crisp with blue skies that signal spring is on the way, making the chores chilly but bearable. The dog walk – solo, silent, not a single child in tow – is a particular highlight and, actually, doesn’t feel like a load at all, although I suspect poor weather would make it a grim business. Stuart replenishes the food cupboards, plans tea and cooks: bangers and mash. The impact is remarkable. I feel like I’m on holiday! This has been a brilliant idea! And then the baby smears mashed potato into his hair and, while Stuart does bathe him, he doesn’t wash it out. Damn.

Stuart: I think Chloë may have twigged that walking the dog is actually nice and not a chore at all, but I keep my counsel and pray it rains tomorrow. I take the boys to a nature reserve and time a click-and-collect supermarket stop with our journey home. I smile as I survey the ingredients for a full week of what I call “dynamic fusion cooking” and what Chloë calls “eating the first three things you see when you open the fridge”. We are all fed and the baby has almost no mashed potato in his hair after his bath.

Tuesday

Chloë: Over breakfast, Stuart tells me his plan for the day: build the baby’s new cot, take both boys to the park, make tea, bathe the baby (no mention of hair washing but I’m hopeful). He asks me to check a list he has made, neatly written in his notebook. The experiment is proving to be rather artificial. This is, after all, the same list I gave him two days ago. I’ve found myself checking in with him, too: we both want to get it right. But it does suggest we are still carrying at least part of our own loads. Even so, I do remember to take the bins out. At dinner, the baby adds a subtle streak of banana to the mashed potato. Still no hair wash. Double damn.

Stuart: I feel a bit of a fraud running my plan for the day past Chloë to check if it’s OK, especially as, unprompted, she trudges off to discover where the bins are kept. I build the baby’s cot, take both boys to the park, cook the first three things I see when I open the fridge and wonder which day I should wash the baby’s hair.

Wednesday

Chloë: Today is the hardest so far for me. It’s half-term and the children’s grandparents are taking them for the day. I’m itching to organise it. What time are they being dropped off? Do they need packed lunches? Has the routine been explained? Instead, I leave it to Stuart who is remarkably relaxed about it all. But then … it’s all fine. Everyone has a lovely day; disaster doesn’t strike. I wonder whether the weight of my mental load is, in part, linked to my own anxiety. While everyone is out, I tackle the housework on my (new) list: folding, vacuuming, wiping, washing, even clambering into the loft to put away stuff that has been festering on the landing. Stuart seems impressed although I catch him casting a concerned eye on the unvacuumed stairs as he heads up to tackle bathtime. He washes the baby’s hair, though. Hurrah!

Stuart: I start to think that we both create a fair chunk of our own mental loads by worrying about small details. I demonstrate how this can be avoided by dropping the boys with their grandparents without checking their lunch plans or asking if 180 wet wipes will be enough. Chloë responds in kind, putting things in the loft apparently by hurling them through the hole in the ceiling. I wash the baby’s hair.

Thursday

Chloë: This is trickier than we realised. The mental load, it seems, is not something that can be handed over easily, like a baton in a relay. It’s baked into the way we live our lives, into what I think about as I fall asleep and the things Instagram’s algorithm hits me with when I wake up (this morning: seven signs your toddler is unhappy!) While I feel confident with the household chores, I’m ashamed to say I struggle to take on the heaviest load Stuart told me he carries: the finances. Despite having remortgaged a property I owned when I was single, I left this job to Stuart when we bought a house together in 2021 and haven’t really thought about it since; an admission so painfully traditional I feel embarrassed to admit it. So I cast a cursory eye over the falling interest rates and resolve to ask him more questions about how I can help.

Stuart: As much as I want to stick to the spirit of the week, I can’t help but worry about our mortgage. The fixed-term rate is ending and our next step will have consequences. What if we tie in for longer and rates go down? What if we don’t and they go up? I know our finances to the pound and a bad call will have a big impact. In the end, Chloë puts on a good show of being interested in the interest, but I make the decision.

Friday

Chloë: As we relax into the week and the shiny novelty of the experiment begins to tarnish, it’s becoming harder not to slip back into the familiar. Trying not to act on my own mental load – while also taking on Stuart’s – is like wearing my shoes on the wrong feet or writing with my other hand: bloody awkward. At times, I find myself on autopilot, organising nap-times, planning the boys’ snacks and lunches, and responding to family WhatsApp group messages that I know Stuart won’t think are urgent but which I can’t leave unanswered. I also have the children all day today and, given a large chunk of my mental load is around parenting – and it’s a playdate I had organised with a friend – it doesn’t feel unlike a normal day. Not having to sort out tea when I get home, though, is a marked improvement.

Stuart: I realise I’m thinking more and doing less but the workload feels similar. Chloë has the boys and I make a conscious effort not to tidy the house or check if blue tits have made a nest in our wall insulation again. However, the mental work of deciding what is for tea and timing it to be on the table when everyone is home feels like a fair swap for cleaning the stairs, which I’m sure Chloë will do any day now.

Saturday

Chloë: Today, I tackle the stairs, a bleak task that involves scraping up the dog hair that clings to our carpet regardless of how much we (OK, Stuart) vacuum. While I’m clawing away at the floor, Stuart is making plans for the afternoon: a visit to a child-friendly pub to watch rugby. The outing will be over the boys’ teatime and, unprompted, he packs them a box of pesto pasta – their favourite – as well as fruit and vegetable snacks. It’s the kind of thing I would have done pre-swap and I am appreciative.

Stuart: I take both boys on a parkrun in the double buggy while Chloë does a long run. At home, she cleans the stairs after I dedicate the drive back to sending her a psychic reminder. I organise a pub trip with friends in the afternoon, arriving with a prepared dinner for the boys that could feed us all for a week.

Sunday

Chloë: On the final day, Stuart begins to tidy up in earnest. He promises that this isn’t because the house is untidy (although with two children it always is) but because he has missed pottering around the house, doing jobs. I do think there’s something in this: I have missed cooking meals (although not planning them). I power through and meet friends for a baby-free lunch while Stuart looks after the boys. I’m not sure what they get up to, what they eat or if they nap but note, pleased, that I feel remarkably OK about that.

Stuart: After letting my mind wander, I realise I have spent an hour absent-mindedly tidying. I drop Chloë at lunch and the hour-long nap that the boys are guaranteed to take in the car lasts seven minutes. I run round a supermarket before discussing in depth with the toddler whether or not starfish have arms. As the week draws to a close, I am glad to be returning to my more chore-centric existence, but with an increased appreciation that doing more is different to thinking more.

Conclusion

The experiment ends with another discussion in the car, debriefing as we drive to collect our toddler from the childminder.

It transpires that neither of us thinks the other has it much easier but nor do we begrudge a swap back. While we did switch chores with some success, we actually found the week more stressful than usual as we juggled a contrived mental load with fretting about whether or not our usual load was being picked up. We note, too, that our mental loads are so deep-rooted, a complete handover – if, indeed, that is the goal – would require more than a week’s secondment. (On-the-job training, perhaps? Regular appraisals?) We also agree that whether the mental load feels heavy or not depends on changing factors: how much sleep you got the night before, for example, or if there is a big work deadline. Stuart points out that, more important than dividing the mental load equally, is being responsive to what your partner needs and adapting as necessary. Who, ultimately, has the greater mental load? We decide I do but that the load is often offset by the amount of physical work – from tidying to playing with our sons – that Stuart does.

We conclude, as we pull into the childminder’s, that if long-term change is the objective, talking about it with your partner isn’t just recommended, it is essential – and, actually, doesn’t at all nullify the purpose of the chat. Opening up a dialogue has allowed us to have a respectful, thoughtful and continuing conversation about how we are feeling and faring. We have made the invisible visible.

Which is why, when we get home, Stuart reveals that he has done the online food shop.