Ulat nina Birkita Abella and Geraldine Flores

By seven in the morning, laundry shops across Los Baños are already in motion, humming with life. The first washing machines begin their wash cycle, and the air inside the shop fills with heat from dryers and the scent of detergent. 

Most students who drop off their laundry see only the finished product: crisp shirts, softened towels, and clothes restored to order. What they rarely witness are the women behind the work– mothers who rise before dawn, endure aching backs and forgotten meals, and who continue working into the evening, even when customers request last-minute service, “Ate, baka puwede po maghintay… wala na isusuot.”

These are workers who balance family and labor with quiet grace, weaving resilience into every folded garment. 

The Day Begins Before Work

For the women inside these shops, the workday does not begin at 7:00 AM. It begins hours earlier at home.

Ate Catherine wakes before 6:00 AM. Her morning moves quickly—coffee, a bath, then out the door. By 7:10 AM, she is inside the shop, sometimes earlier, lifting the shutters and preparing for the hours ahead. Beside her is Ate Hazel, her co-worker turned best friend of seven years in the same laundry shop. 

Both are mothers of six. Their children range from grade school to adulthood–some still in school, others with families of their own. Their work in the laundry shop is not separate from their lives as mothers; it is deeply tied to them. Every hour spent in the shop supports the needs of their families at home.

In another shop, Ate Mayett wakes even earlier, around five in the morning, to prepare food for her 14-year-old child before leaving for work. “Iniiwanan ko siya ng pagkain,” she says, making sure everything is ready before she steps out.

Even while at work, they remain responsible for their families at home.  

Work that Never Really Pauses

Inside the shop, machines set the pace, but the women move faster than they do. Each load takes over an hour: 35 minutes to wash, 40 minutes to dry, followed by folding. While the machines run in cycles, the workers do not. They move, constantly folding, unloading, sorting, and assisting customers. 

On a typical day, Ate Catherine and Hazel handle up to 40 loads. In other shops, like Ate Marlyn’s, the number can reach 60, stretching from morning until evening.  Despite this, the labor is often perceived as simple, reduced to the push of a button and the hum of machines.

“‘Yung minamadali kami,” Ate Catherine answers when asked about customers sometimes expecting their laundry to be finished immediately, even when dozens of loads are already queued ahead of them. In response, the workers adjust, not because the work allows it, but because the situation demands it. “Minsan niru-rush namin,” Hazel adds. They rearrange loads to squeeze in rushed requests–making them change their routine to meet the expectations that rarely account for the time the work actually requires. 

The Physical Cost of Everyday Labor 

As the day stretches toward midday, the shop grows noticeably heavy with heat.  The dryers run almost without pause, releasing heat that settles into the small space and clings to the skin. Electric fans circulate air, but the heat remains difficult to avoid, especially during the summer months. 

“Tinitiis na lang para sa pamilya. Salit-salit na lang kami, kahit sobrang init.” Ate Hazel says, a statement less complaint than quiet acceptance. The body, over time, learns to adjust, but not without consequence. Fatigue builds gradually, settling into the muscles in ways that are both familiar and unavoidable. “Minsan nakakalimutan na kumain sa sobrang pagod. ‘Pag wala ka nang kasabay kumain, wala ka nang gana– tutulog mo na lang, ” she adds, describing how the long hours and exhaustion can override even the most basic routines of sharing a meal with their family. 

For Ate Mayett, sitting is rarely an option. “Hindi puwedeng hindi ka tatayo kasi ‘pag nakaupo ka, mas mabagal ang paggawa,” she explains. If she slows down, the work piles up. If she pauses, the rhythm breaks. So, she remains on her feet, like many others in the same line of work, pushing through the discomfort because the job requires it. 

Pain, in this context, is not an exception. It is part of their routine. As Ate Mayett phrases it, “Pero kasi trabaho [‘to] kaya ganun po talaga. Kailangan naming ibigay ang serbisyo.”

Care Work Beyond Obligation

Yet even within this physically demanding environment, the work extends beyond what is required. Much of what these women do falls outside the formal expectations of the job, shaped instead by a sense of care that mirrors the roles they carry at home. Clothes are folded even when customers do not pay for folding, and arranged carefully so they are not returned wrinkled or disorganized. Each load is placed neatly into plastic to ensure that its items remain clean and protected. 

Ate Mayett explains, “Ang ginagawa po namin, para tulong po sa estudyante, kami po ang nagsesemi-tupi. Para hindi naman po pag ginamit ng estudyante, gusot-gusot.” These extra steps are framed not as added labor, but as part of the service they choose to give. In towns like Los Baños, where many customers are students living away from home, these small gestures take on a deeper meaning. They are not just acts of efficiency, but quiet extensions of care–ways of making daily life a little easier for someone else.

For Ate Marlyn, this sense of care becomes even more personal. “Ma-ano ako sa customer ko na estudyante—naituturing ko silang anak,” she says when describing student customers. Over time, familiarity builds through repeated interactions: reminders to keep receipts, gentle scolding when they forget, and casual conversations that soften the work’s transactional nature. She watches over them in small ways, not because it is expected, but because it comes naturally. 

Even when mistakes happen, the response is guided by empathy. She recalls a time when a mix-up left a student without clothes; without hesitation, she offered money so the student could buy something to wear. “Naawa ako dun sa bata. As in, ‘yun lang talaga ang damit niya,” she says. In moments like these, the boundaries between worker and caregiver begin to blur. 

Patience as Part of the Job

Patience is part of the job. Every day, these women deal with customers who rush, complain, or demand what the machines cannot deliver. Ate Catherine shares, “‘Yung minsan gusto nila makuha agad ‘yung damit kahit marami pang nakapila na ibang customer.” Ate Hazel echoes this, explaining how they sometimes rearrange loads to accommodate urgent requests.

For Ate Marlyn, patience extends beyond the technical limits of laundry. She recalls dealing with older customers who scolded her about smells or folding, even when the issue was beyond her control. “Lagi ka dapat kalmado, at mahaba ang pasensya… ‘Wag mo silang papatulan kahit sila ay masungit,” she says. Ate Mayett adds that communicating also keeps transactions smooth, “Kailangan naman po magkaroon kayo ng unawaan para wala po kayong maging problema sa customer at pati po sa amin.” 

Patience, then, is not passive. It is an active negotiation between machines, customers, and the workers’ own exhaustion. It is the quiet discipline of swallowing frustration, of adjusting loads, of smiling through complaints, and of reminding oneself that dignity lies in endurance. 

Rising Costs

The hum of machines matches the hum of expenses as gas, electricity, and detergent have all climbed in price. Ate Hazel recalls the shift, “Dati ₱180 [per load] lang, ngayon dahil nagtaasan ang lahat, siguro nagtaas si Kuya ng ₱10… kasi sa gas pa lang,” emphasizing that the machines are powered by gas. Yet despite the increase, she notes their hesitation, “Nag-aalinlangan kami [sa mga suki] magtaas bigla.”

Ate Mayett echoes the same concern, “Nag-adjust po kami pero maliit lang po… dati po ₱180 kasama na dun yung sabon at Downy. Nagtaas lang po kami ng ₱10 kasi kinakapa rin namin yung mga estudyante. Hindi po kami puwedeng magtaas nang magtaas kasi nakakaawa rin po.”

For Ate Marlyn, she recounts multiple rounds of adjustments, “Dalawang beses o tatlong beses kami nagtaas.” She admits the impact on students, “Minsan hindi na nagpapa-extra dry kasi mataas na raw.”

These stories reveal the tight operating margins of laundry shops. Even small increases can affect both customers and workers, and in turn, affect the careful balance between affordability and sustainability. 

Closing Time

By the end of the day,  the women step into the night carrying more than fatigue. They carry patience stretched thin across dozens of cycles, the burden of rising costs pressing against their livelihood, and the quiet pride of care extended beyond obligation.

 Ate Marlyn, despite the stress, still finds herself treating students like family, “Ako naman, ma-ano ako sa customer ko na estudyante na naituturing ko silang anak.”

At a glance, the labor behind dirty clothes appears straightforward as a cycle of washing, drying, and folding repeated throughout the day. The process behind it is often left unseen. Behind each garment is an aching muscle; behind every cycle is a mother’s patience. 

In their hands, laundry becomes more than a chore. They transform disorder into neat stacks, turning exhaustion into quiet grace in every crease. This shows that even in the most ordinary routines, extraordinary humanity is spun and folded back into the threads of the community.