When I was little, I thought if I tried hard enough, I could fix everything.
I could be the glue that held things together. The steady force that made life better. The one who solved the problems that were never really mine to solve.
So I worked. I studied. I did everything right. I climbed higher, pushed harder, sacrificed more. Because I believed in a simple equation: if I succeed, things will be okay.
But no one tells you what happens when you win the wrong game.
No one tells you that people who hand you their burdens won’t always take them back. That the problems you fix will be replaced with new ones. That love, appreciation, and security don’t automatically arrive when you check all the right boxes.
No one tells you that by the time you figure this out, you’re so used to carrying the weight that you don’t know how to set it down.
For years, I didn’t buy myself anything nice. Every purchase was measured against what else that money could be used for—what problem it could solve, what mess it could clean up. Even when I could afford comfort, I didn’t think I deserved it.
And I thought that was normal.
It wasn’t.
I am learning—slowly, painfully—that I am allowed to exist outside of being useful. That my worth isn’t tied to what I can fix or who I can save. That I can say no without feeling like I am letting the world crumble.
That I can want things. Just for me.
And that maybe, just maybe, setting down the weight isn’t the same as giving up.
Maybe it’s just finally walking free.
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