I Quit: Try Not to Panic !

To Whom It May (Very Much) Concern—namely, to myself, to the people I’ve kept warm while I froze, and to the idea of who I was supposed to be:

This is a formal resignation. Effective immediately.

I hereby step down from my position as The Strong One. You know her. She’s dependable. Steady. Graceful under pressure. She says, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” and actually means, “I’m crumbling, but I’ll make it look good.” She shows up. Always. Even when she hasn’t slept, hasn’t cried, hasn’t said no in months.

Well, she’s out. I’m out.

I’m not submitting this letter with bitterness—though I could. Nor out of spite—though I’d be justified. I’m doing this with clarity. With finality. With a weariness so deep it has changed the shape of my bones. With a desire for air, for truth, for something that feels like my own voice coming back home to me.

Let’s be real: I never applied for this job.

I was drafted. Groomed, maybe. Shaped by the quiet contracts of family, friendship, womanhood. I was taught that strength meant silence. That being “easy to love” meant having no needs. That being a good person meant making room for everyone—even if it meant erasing yourself entirely to do so.

And I was good at it. Scarily good. A natural.

You needed help moving? I was there.

Needed someone to vent to? I had all the right nods and affirmations.

Needed someone to be calm while you fell apart? I was your anchor.

You forgot my birthday? No worries.

You canceled on me five minutes before our plans? That’s okay, I understand.

You never asked how I was doing? Of course not—I never made a fuss.

It was a flawless performance. Until I looked in the mirror one day and saw... no one. Just this ghost of a woman who smiled too much, apologized too often, and called that “love.”

Here’s what people don’t tell you about being the strong one:

You don’t get checked on. You get counted on.

You don’t get tenderness. You get tasks.

You’re not allowed to crack, or scream, or fall apart. You become the designated adult in every room, the emotional janitor cleaning up everyone else’s mess while yours festers in the corner.

And I bought into it. Hook, line, identity.

Until I didn’t.

It started slowly. A twitch in the eye. A pit in the stomach. That particular kind of tired that sleep won’t fix. You know, the kind that whispers, “You’re not living. You’re performing.”

One day, I caught myself pretending to be okay out of pure habit. I wasn’t fine. I was worn out, pissed off, and deeply lonely. But I smiled. I comforted. I said, “It’s nothing.”

And I hated myself for it.

That was the turning point. The moment I realized: This job is killing me. Not all at once. But drip by drip, boundary by broken boundary. I was becoming a caricature of reliability, a well-wrapped box of emotional labor that everyone opened but no one restocked.

So here it is, the official announcement:

I resign.

I’m no longer the receptacle for guilt that isn’t mine.

I’m no longer the silent sufferer.

I will no longer be the peacekeeper, the good girl, the safe option, the understanding one, the patient saint, the ever-smiling face at the expense of my truth.

Let me be specific about what this resignation includes:

- I will no longer answer texts out of obligation.

- I will not say yes when I want to scream no.

- I will not attend events that drain me just to keep up appearances.

- I will not minimize my pain so yours can take up more room.

- I will not pretend that things are “fine” when they are not.

- I will not listen endlessly to those who never ask how I’m doing.

- I will no longer say, “It’s okay,” when it’s really, really not.

From now on, my “no” is a complete sentence.

My “yes” is a deliberate choice.

And my silence? It’s not agreement anymore. It’s preservation.

This might upset some people. I’m prepared for that. People don’t like when the furniture moves. When the person who used to absorb everything suddenly becomes… self-protective. Unavailable. Unwilling to play martyr.

But I’m not here to manage their discomfort anymore. I’m here to save my life.

You might be wondering, who’s going to do all the things I used to do?

I don’t know.

Not me.

Someone else will have to figure it out.

Maybe they’ll fumble. Maybe they’ll finally realize how much I was doing in silence. Or maybe they won’t. That’s no longer my concern.

For those who truly love me, who see me as a whole person and not just a support system: I’m still here. In fact, I’m more me than I’ve ever been. But I’ll be showing up differently now. More boundaries. More honesty. More rest. Fewer apologies.

To the version of me who thought being lovable meant being convenient:

I’m so sorry. You didn’t know any better. But I do now.

To the people who only loved me when I was easy, available, and quiet:

I hope you find someone else to perform for you. I’m off the clock.

To my heart, my body, my nervous system:

You’ve carried so much. You deserve ease. Joy. Laughter that doesn’t come with guilt. Sleep that isn’t haunted. You deserve to be held, not just useful.

This isn’t an ending. It’s an exit.

From performance. From pretending. From the slow erosion of self in the name of “being good.”

I don’t know exactly who I am now. I’m still learning her voice. Still figuring out how to walk without the limp of people-pleasing. But I’m here. And I’m not going back.

So consider this my final act of strength:

I’m letting go of being strong.

And I’m choosing to be free instead.

Sincerely,

Me.