Being needed made me feel like I mattered. Every crisis gave me a role. Every meltdown was an invitation. I was the dependable one. My inbox was a helpline. My calendar, a graveyard of canceled plans. I didn’t say no. I didn’t pause. I was on call for everyone but myself.
It’s seductive—this whole saving people thing.
You feel important.
You feel necessary.
You get to be the calm in someone else’s storm.
Until you realize you’re always standing in the storm, getting soaked, and no one’s offering you an umbrella. Eventually, it stops being noble and starts being exhausting.
Kindness is not a virtue if it drains the life out of you. If giving leaves you empty, it’s not compassion—it’s self-erasure. That’s not love. That’s martyrdom with good PR.
Let’s call it what it is: control. The need to fix people is often about managing our own discomfort. We say we’re helping, but we’re just trying to quiet the noise in our heads. I’ve done it. I’ve wrapped control in a warm blanket of care. I thought I was being generous. I wasn’t. I was being avoidant. Avoiding my own mess by cleaning up everyone else’s.
Letting go of that identity? Brutal.
Who am I if I’m not the fixer?
What’s left when you strip away the performance of usefulness?
The answers came slow. Some days, not at all. Some days I just sat there, raw and restless, staring at the ceiling, hoping it would tell me who I was without the chaos.
Self-love is not a scented candle and a face mask.
It’s not a quote with a sunset background.
It’s drag-yourself-to-the-bathroom-after-crying self-respect.
It’s looking in the mirror and choosing not to flinch.
It’s being on your own side when your mind tells you you’re not worth the effort.
I had to start asking better questions. Not deep philosophical ones. Real ones.
Are you tired? Are you pretending not to be?
Are you angry? Why are you swallowing it?
Are you lonely? Are you covering it with busyness?
The answers made me uncomfortable. That’s the point.
Now I notice the silence. I sit in it. I watch people struggle and I don’t rush in. I let myself take the nap. I let things be unresolved. That used to terrify me. Still does, sometimes. But peace has started to feel like an option.
You can love someone and still say, “That’s not mine to carry.” You can want their healing and still choose your own. That’s not cold. That’s clarity. That’s what boundaries sound like when they grow a spine.
Yes, it hurts to witness pain and stay seated. It burns not to jump in. But I’ve stopped mistaking pain for purpose.
I don’t need to bleed to be worthy.
I’m allowed to choose myself.
I’m allowed to rest.
I’m allowed to be.
That’s growth. That’s power. That’s mine.
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