From the Strong One, the Quiet One, the Always-There Daughter

To Whom It May Concern — and I suppose that now, only the stars, the silence, and my own heart are listening,

I hereby submit my resignation.

I am resigning from being the strong one.

I am resigning from being the quiet one.

I am resigning from being the one who never says no.

And, perhaps most painfully, I am resigning from being a daughter — not because I want to, but because both of you, my beloved parents, are gone.

You left me. Not by choice, I know. But still — here I am, breath in my lungs, tears on my face, heart half-closed like a door left ajar after a storm — and you are not here.

So let me begin.

I resign from being strong, because strength has become a disguise. A full-body costume I zipped on every morning, pretending I was okay. I used to wear it like armor, like something noble. People admired it. They said things like, “You’re so brave,” or “I don’t know how you do it,” or “You’re the rock everyone leans on.” And I smiled. I nodded. I stayed silent.

But inside?

Inside I was crumbling.

The strong one doesn’t get to cry. The strong one doesn’t get to fall apart. The strong one doesn’t get to scream into a pillow or admit they don’t know what they’re doing. The strong one doesn’t get to say, “I’m not okay.”

So I stayed strong for you. I stayed strong when you got sick. I stayed strong when you were in the hospital. I stayed strong when I watched the light fade from your eyes.

But I don’t want to be strong anymore if strong means pretending I’m not broken.

I resign from being the quiet one. The one who held her tongue to keep the peace. The one who swallowed emotions like stones because she thought her pain was less important than others’. The one who sat in rooms full of noise and held her breath so others could breathe easier.

You taught me silence could be kind. That holding space could be powerful. That stillness is its own language. And you were right — sometimes.

But silence became a prison. And now, with no one left to understand the language I never spoke, the walls are closing in.

I have things to say. Rage to express. Grief to howl. Love to scream into the void. But my voice has grown rusty from disuse, my words caught in cobwebs. So here is my attempt: I’m not okay. I need help. I want to be heard. I miss you. I miss you both so much I can barely breathe.

I resign from being the one who never says no. The “of course I’ll do it,” “whatever you need,” “I’ve got it” girl. The human bandage, the fixer, the yes-machine.

It started young, didn’t it? I wanted to be good. I wanted to make you proud. So I said yes — to the chores, the babysitting, the errands, the favors. I said yes to the impossible. Yes to carrying the weight of everyone’s needs. Yes to my own exhaustion.

And now I’m tired.

Bone-deep, soul-deep, time-doesn’t-fix-this kind of tired.

I’ve been running on fumes and obligation for years, and the truth is — I don’t know who I am outside of the doing. Outside of being useful. Outside of always being the reliable one.

I want to say no. I want to say no and not feel guilty. I want to say no and not fear abandonment. I want to say no and still believe I am lovable.

I resign from being a daughter — not because I stopped loving you, but because daughterhood, in its very definition, requires parents.

And you are gone.

Mom, Dad — you died.

I’ve said it a thousand times in my mind, but it still doesn’t feel real. I still expect the phone to ring. I still look for your handwriting in the mail. I still save stories to tell you. I still catch myself thinking, “What would they say?” And then I remember.

There is no one left to say anything.

When you were here, being your daughter was my most sacred role. Not always easy, not without pain or conflict, but it was a tether. A place to belong. A reason to try. A name I wore with pride.

Now, it feels like a word I’m not allowed to say anymore. Like a house I’m locked out of. I go to reach for you, and there is only empty space.

And so I resign.

But let me be clear — I do not resign from love.

I do not resign from memory.

I do not resign from the lessons you gave me, or the warmth of your presence that still lingers in the corners of rooms and in the music I hear on quiet afternoons.

I will always be your child in the sense that you shaped me. I carry your stories in my bones, your voices in my conscience. I still talk to you in the dark. I still ask your advice, even if I have to answer myself. I still weep for you, which I suppose is another form of saying, “I love you.”

But the daily act of being a daughter — the caretaking, the calling, the checking in, the anticipation of holidays, the worrying, the helping, the holding your hands, the goodbye hugs — that role has ended.

And I’m grieving not only you, but who I was when you were alive.

I was someone’s child. Now I’m no one’s.

Do you know how hollow that feels?

Do you know how terrifying it is to be untethered in the world?

You were my compass. Now the needle spins and spins.

I resign, too, from trying to pretend that this grief has an expiration date.

It doesn’t.

I’ve learned that some grief is not a wound but a companion. It walks with me. Some days behind me, some days ahead. Sometimes it curls beside me in bed, whispering your names into the space where I used to rest my head on your shoulder.

I used to think time would heal this. Now I know time just teaches you how to carry it.

I resign from hiding this grief behind a smile. From pretending that I’ve moved on. From being “fine.” I’m not fine. I’m learning, slowly, how to live with the hole you left.

Some days, I laugh again. Some days, I remember something you said and it makes me smile. Some days, I see you in my own reflection, and it comforts me. But some days, the pain returns like a tide, and I let it wash over me.

I resign from pretending I’ve figured it out.

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know who I’ll become now that I’ve laid down all these old roles.

But I know this: I want to live a life where I can say yes when I mean yes, and no when I need to. I want to be strong when I must, but soft when I’m tired. I want to speak, not just listen. I want to rest without guilt. I want to grieve without shame. I want to be a woman — not just a daughter, not just a caretaker, not just a shadow of who I used to be.

I want to be whole again. Or at least honest.

This resignation is not a giving up — it’s a letting go.

I love you. I always will. But I cannot keep living in the shadow of the person I was when you were alive.

I will find new ways to honor you. I will find new language for the love that doesn’t die. I will build new rooms inside myself for healing and hope.

But for now — this chapter closes.

Thank you for everything.

With trembling hands and an open heart,

Your former daughter — and always your child,

Dagmar (Daggi)