The Temptation of Power – Part 4: The Business of Caring

There was a time when caring for another human being rarely appeared in the national accounts.

Parents raised children.

Adult children cared for ageing parents.

Neighbours looked after neighbours.

Meals were cooked.

Clothes were repaired.

Homes were maintained.

None of this counted towards Gross Domestic Product.

It generated no invoices.

It attracted no taxation.

Yet society functioned.

This raises an uncomfortable question.

When politicians speak proudly of economic growth, are we always producing more wealth, or are we sometimes merely paying for activities that families once performed without charge?

Suppose a mother stays at home to care for her own child.

Economically, almost nothing happens.

No wages are paid.

No income tax is collected.

No National Insurance contributions are made.

No VAT is charged.

The child receives care, but GDP barely notices.

Now suppose that same mother returns to paid employment.

The child enters professional childcare.

The mother earns a salary.

The childcare provider earns income.

Taxes are collected from both.

The provider purchases equipment and services, creating still more taxable transactions.

Measured economic activity increases dramatically.

Has society become more caring?

Or has the same care simply become a commercial service?

The question is worth asking because modern economies measure transactions rather than relationships.

GDP records money changing hands.

It does not measure love.

It does not measure family responsibility.

It does not measure neighbours helping neighbours.

It does not measure parents reading to children.

It does not measure the countless unpaid acts of kindness that hold communities together.

This is not a criticism of GDP.

It was never designed to measure such things.

It is a measure of economic output, not human flourishing.

The mistake lies in assuming that because GDP rises, society must therefore be healthier.

Sometimes that may be true.

Sometimes it may not.

Over the past century, many responsibilities once carried out within households have gradually become professions.

Childcare.

Elder care.

Cleaning.

Cooking.

Maintenance.

Education.

Counselling.

Some of these changes have undoubtedly improved standards.

Professional expertise has saved lives.

Modern medicine has transformed healthcare.

Specialised education has expanded opportunities.

None of this should be dismissed.

But every transfer has consequences.

As more responsibilities move from households into the marketplace or the public sector, more economic activity is created.

More taxation is collected.

More regulation becomes necessary.

More administration follows.

The economy grows.

So too does the machinery required to manage it.

This is not necessarily the result of a deliberate political plan.

It is often the cumulative consequence of millions of individual decisions.

Families choose convenience.

Employers seek labour.

Governments respond to changing social expectations.

Businesses identify new markets.

Each decision may appear entirely rational in isolation.

Collectively, however, they reshape society.

The household gradually becomes a place of consumption rather than production.

Its economic independence diminishes.

Its responsibilities shrink.

Other institutions expand to fill the space.

Perhaps this is progress.

Perhaps it is not.

My purpose is not to romanticise the past or condemn the present.

It is simply to ask whether we have mistaken economic activity for social wellbeing.

A nation can become wealthier while families become weaker.

GDP can rise while communities become less resilient.

Tax revenues can increase while personal responsibility declines.

These possibilities are rarely discussed because they are difficult to quantify.

They do not fit neatly into government statistics.

Yet they matter.

The strength of a society cannot be measured solely by the value of its transactions.

It must also be measured by the strength of its relationships.

If care is increasingly something we purchase rather than something we provide, we should at least pause to ask what has been gained—and what may have been lost.

For the true business of caring has never been measured in pounds.

It has always been measured in people.