I Resign From Being Your Dumping Ground

To: Whoever decided I could carry the whole damn world on my back

Subject: I f*cking quit

This is my official, public, and gloriously overdue resignation from the unpaid, soul-sucking, boundary-destroying job of being The One Who Holds It All Together. You know the type — the friend who always shows up, the sibling who fixes everything, the coworker who never says no, the person whose phone blows up when everyone else is falling apart but who gets radio silence when it's their turn to unravel.

Yeah. That was me.

Not anymore.

I’m done. Finished. Dead serious.

I’m not stepping down gently. I’m flipping the whole table over on my way out.

Let’s make something very clear: I never applied for this position. No one asked if I wanted to be the emotional first responder. It was just… assumed. I had a calm voice? A strong jaw? A half-decent poker face? Boom. Suddenly I was the designated rock, the ever-steady fallback, the one who could “handle anything.”

And for a while, I did. I swallowed my needs, shrunk my rage, smiled through tears, and called it maturity. I learned how to comfort everyone but myself. I showed up when I was crumbling. I said “it’s okay” when it absolutely f*cking wasn’t. I clapped for people who wouldn’t even look up when it was my turn.

But here’s the thing. People don’t love the strong one. They use the strong one. They expect the strong one to have no needs, no cracks, no limits. Because the second you do? You’re “not like yourself.” You're “acting different.” You're “too much.”

Well, guess what? I am too much. I am a goddamn forest fire in a world asking me to be a candle.

I’m done being your emotional landing strip. Your therapist in a friend disguise. Your guilt sponge. Your conflict vacuum. I’m done being the one who always makes room, who always understands, who always stretches herself into a human apology.

You know what it cost me? Years of anxiety that I laughed off. Sleep I couldn’t get back. Dreams I abandoned because someone else’s needs screamed louder than mine. I can’t even count the number of times I made myself small just to make other people comfortable. Bent myself into emotional origami, handed it over like a gift, and was told it still wasn’t enough.

I’ve cried in cars, in closets, in bathrooms at weddings — holding other people’s secrets while burying my own. I’ve hugged people through betrayals they never even acknowledged. I’ve smiled through backhanded compliments, toxic expectations, and endless, exhausting obligations.

All because I was told I was “so strong.”

Let me tell you something: strength that comes at the cost of your sanity is not strength. It’s self-abandonment. It’s slow death with polite manners.

So I’m burning the script. I’m walking off the stage mid-performance. I am no longer available for emotional labor I didn’t sign up for.

• To everyone who only called when they needed a crisis cleaned up: lose my number.
• To the people who disappeared when I wasn’t convenient: stay gone.
• To the ones who made me feel guilty for being human, for crying, for needing time, for not bouncing back instantly: you are not entitled to a version of me that doesn’t feel pain.

I’m allowed to fall apart. I’m allowed to say no. I’m allowed to walk away from dynamics that demand my silence.

I am not your emotional reservoir. I am not your free therapist. I am not your f*cking support beam.

I am a person. A messy, complex, emotional person with limits, with needs, with a damn backbone.

And starting today, I am using it.

Don’t mistake this for bitterness — although, if we’re being honest, bitterness is a perfectly valid flavor after years of being chewed up and spat out. This is not bitterness. This is boundaries. This is me finally drawing a line with fire instead of a pencil.

No, I will not be attending your drama. No, I will not be fixing your mistakes for the hundredth time. No, I will not bite my tongue so you can sleep better at night. I’m done making excuses for people who wouldn’t lift a finger for me.

I am not here to be your soft place to land while you throw knives in every direction. I’m not soft anymore. I’m steel now. Bent, yes — but unbroken.

I’ve been told my anger makes people uncomfortable. Good. Let it. Maybe now you’ll listen.

I spent too long being palatable, agreeable, digestible. That ends here. From now on, I say what I mean. I say no without a smile. I speak even if my voice shakes. I put myself first — loudly, unapologetically, and without looking back.

If that makes me “selfish,” so be it. I’d rather be selfish than self-erased.

To the version of me who stayed quiet, who kept the peace, who made herself small to survive: I see you. I’m sorry. You did what you had to. But I promise, we’re not doing that anymore.

We’re done carrying people who never once asked if we needed to sit down. We’re done shrinking so someone else can feel big. We’re done performing strength while bleeding out behind the curtain.

This is not a phase. This is a revolution.

So if you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow, she’s changed”… you're absolutely right. I’ve changed. I’ve finally stopped pretending that breaking myself into pieces is love. I’ve finally realized that being strong for everyone else was just another way of disappearing.

Not anymore.

In closing (and believe me, I’m slamming the door on the way out):

I resign from being your emotional anchor, your backup plan, your silent punching bag, your ever-reliable, never-needy rock.

I resign from swallowing my truth so you can sleep better at night.

I resign from being the one who holds it together when no one else gives a damn whether I fall apart.

I resign from the role of “the strong one.”

Find someone else to carry your sh*t. This spine is mine now.

Sincerely,

Me — furious, free, and finally done