Echoes Before Breath

I’ve always been the strong one.

The one with the calm voice during a crisis, the one who remembers birthdays, who listens without checking the time, who rushes in when someone else crumbles.

They call me “a light,” “a safe space,” “a rock.”

They never ask what happens to a rock when waves keep hitting it, again and again, without rest.

But lately... I’ve been breaking in places no one sees.

And it’s not loud.

It’s silent—the kind of breaking that sounds like forgotten phone calls, unanswered messages, eyes that stop shining, and laughter that’s too quiet to echo.

You know that moment in a storm when the air goes still, right before the thunder?

That’s how my mind feels now.

I give so much of myself, I can’t find me anymore.

I’m not angry that they need me.

I love that they trust me with their hurt.

But I’ve learned something heartbreaking in my silence:

No one thinks the healer needs healing.

I try to scream, but my scream sounds like

“I’m fine.”

I try to cry, but my tears know how to hide behind a smile.

People don't see burnout when you're good at pretending.

They say:

“You’re so strong.”

“You always handle everything so well.”

I nod, even though my hands shake behind closed doors.

Even though I write late at night just to remember how it feels to exist for myself.

Even though I stare at the ceiling and wonder if anyone would notice if I simply stopped showing up.

But I keep showing up.

Because it’s all I know how to do.

One day, I skipped a friend’s call.

It wasn’t out of anger—it was exhaustion.

That night, they texted:

“You’ve changed.”

Yes. I have.

I’ve become a version of myself that’s numb.

Not cruel, not careless—just empty.

My empathy cup spilled long ago, and no one noticed the puddle.

No one asked why the light felt dimmer.

The truth?

I’ve been mourning myself in silence.

The version of me who smiled without effort.

Who laughed without guilt.

Who held people without needing to hold herself together first.

I think the hardest part isn’t being unseen.

It’s being seen only when I’m needed.

I sometimes fantasize about someone showing up—not to be saved, not to vent—but to say:

“You don’t have to be strong today. Let me carry it.”

But those words rarely come.

Because I’ve convinced the world I don’t need them.

So I rest now. In pieces.

But at least I’m not pretending anymore.

I wrote this—not as a confession, but as a reminder.

If someone you know always shows up, ask them how they’re doing.

If someone always listens, listen back.

If someone keeps you warm, notice if they’ve grown cold.

Because sometimes the strongest people are quietly unraveling.

“They never knew the weight I held,
Until I dropped it—
And it shattered me more than them.”

I’m healing now.

Not because someone saved me.

But because I realized I deserve the care I kept giving away.

And if you’re the healer, the giver, the soft heart carrying sharp pain

This is your permission to stop. To rest. To feel.

To exist without proving your worth through sacrifice.

You matter, even when you’re not helping.

Even when you’re the one who needs saving.

Even when your voice is just a whisper in your own storm.

Let it whisper:

“I am still here.”

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1: Where My Words Went Unheard

2: The Silence After Goodbye