How to Be the Backbone Without Becoming a Doormat

Let me tell you a secret. You don’t notice the person holding it all together until they stop.

That was almost me last winter. I was sitting on the floor of my 450 square foot rental with an old check in one hand and a space heater blowing warm guilt at my knees. I had just sent extra to the Virginia mortgage again. My daughter and autistic granddaughter live there. Meanwhile I was eating chicken for the fifth day in a row, pretending it was intentional meal planning and not survival math.

I keep the books. I balance the numbers. I make a dollar stretch so far it could qualify for yoga teacher training. But there are days I feel like I’m working a full-time job just to fund other people’s stability while trying to build my own from duct tape, loyalty, and three percent interest.

My granddaughter doesn’t speak in full sentences yet, but she knows what she wants. That includes bananas, Bluey, and being safe. That last one is me. I’m the safety net. Not the trampoline. Not the soft place to land. The net. The thing that keeps the fall from becoming a splatter.

I’m 56. The idea of a later life glow up sounds great until you realize the glow is just the fridge light you forgot to replace. I still track every dollar. I overpay the mortgage like it’s a hobby. I know what it means to budget groceries and still send extra to the escrow account just in case the analysis goes off the rails again.

People think being good with money means you're secure. What it really means is that you've trained yourself not to panic when the numbers don’t love you back. I can reconcile payroll in my sleep and track every trade I make for the house fund, but I still get an empty pit in my stomach every time I think about retirement. Not because I haven't planned for it, but because I might be too exhausted to enjoy it when I get there.

I trade options on my lunch break. I run payroll before work. I answer client emails after dinner. I tell people I love QuickBooks, which is half true. What I actually love is the illusion of control. Numbers make sense. People don’t.

I’ve started saying no more often. Not with malice, but with clarity. No, I can’t be everything to everyone. No, I don’t have another $300 lying around this month. No, I can’t be the emotional contractor for other people’s leaky lives. It’s hard. But it’s necessary.

Because being the backbone means you’re strong. But it also means you’re not a doormat.

And on the days when it feels like it’s all too much, I watch my dog give side eye to the world and think, yeah, same. She barks at everything, even shadows, but at least she gets it out. I stew in silence while reviewing spreadsheets and eating a cold dinner.

But I’m still here. Still tired. Still showing up. And maybe that’s the point. You don’t stop being the backbone. You just learn to stand up straighter.