I Resign From… Priya Sharma's Resignation: An Open Letter to All Demanders

To the Esteemed, Though Mostly Exhausting, Committee of Perpetual Demands (and also, to my own long-suffering Inner Voice, who quite deserves a vacation):

Accept this letter as official and permanent notice that I am The Always-Say-Yes Gal, The Designated Doer of Dubious Deeds, and most importantly The Unofficial Keeper of Everyone Else's To-Do List. Effective right away, my tenure as your constantly compliant, often confused, and constantly undervalued facilitator of whims ends. My personal and professional "open door" policy has been closed, bolted, and barricaded with lifetime supply of unreturned Tupperware.

I send this, my long-overdue, declaration of freedom, with almost criminal lack of regret and great relief. I faithfully (if ever more resentful) served this Committee for years. If I were to really enumerate these "duties," my resume would resemble a dream of a surrealist.

Let me recall the outstanding (and quite demanding) portfolio I have managed:

I once agreed to cat-sit Luna, my cousin's sphinx cat, who needed nightly interpretive dance performances to help her digestion. My living room became a cat Cirque du Soleil. Next there were Mr. Henderson's prize-winning petunias; I spent two weeks carefully misting, pruning, and whispering affirmations to them. My personal houseplants silently judged.

I remember clearly the infamous "Great Bake Sale Debacle of 2022," in which I, despite having the cooking abilities of a startled squirrel, offered to help Aunt Mildred create 50 handcrafted gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, taste-free cupcakes for her charity. The final abominations were more "dense, beige hockey pucks" than "cupcake."

My social life turned into a tragicomic sequence of duties. At weddings, I was the perennial "filler guest" knowing just the second-tier relatives of the couple. Right after helping to move a bulky antique armoire, I once spent an entire evening caught in a discussion on the ideal humidity levels for growing Bonsai trees. I always was the one planning "surprise" retirement parties or printer troubleshooting even at work. Usually buried under group expectations, my own deadlines suffered.

Every "yes," a tiny, apparently meaningless concession, bit away my time, energy, and sense of self. My own dreams became dust as I turned into a hollowed-out vessel for other people's needs. My flat became a disorganised museum of unfinished favours: a half-strung guitar for Liam, a mountain of unironed costumes for Sarah's theatre group and a constantly borrowed (and very dubious garden gnome).

But this moment was arising from every overflowing cup, every neglected boundary, every silently screamed "no" that never saw the light of day. With something monumentally, hilariously, soul-crushingly absurd, the breaking point arrived—as all good breaking points do.

Anya's wedding was about to take place. Anya, a former flatmate in college who never found her own socks, asked me to 'just help out'. This benign request broke down quickly. I started out as her unpaid wedding planner, amateur therapist for her cold feet, and main negotiator with Chef Antoine, a constantly cranky caterer. I lost weeks buried in font selections and mediating disputes over bridesmaid dress colours. I stopped working and grew rather close to stress-induced sleeplessness.

But the crescendo, the absolute final, brilliant, sanity-shattering straw, showed up the night before the wedding. Anya called "Priya, the pinecones!" tearfully and slightly tipsy at 11:47 PM. Their lack is not... artistic enough! For the table décor, I need three hundred individual small pinecones hand-painted by you. Everybody wants a delicate gold fleck! Priya, you will have destroyed everything if they are not flawless!

Something snapped. Not noisy, but with a quiet, terrible certainty. Three hundred tiny pinecones. Gold specks. "Ruined everything." The words ricocheted off every past "yes," bouncing about my brain starved of sleep. Petunias, the cat, cupcakes, the armoire. All of it came together into one, blinding insight: I was a glorified, unpaid personal assistant for a society that had misinterpreted my compassion for endless availability.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers. I stared at the ceiling. And for the first time, a genuine, unapologetic "NO" formed in my mind. It was raw, powerful, and utterly liberating.

Thus, hear me now to the Committee and to anyone who has ever considered my time to be a public utility. Immediately effective, my calendar is no longer a public domain for your last-minute crises. Unless it's a real, life-or-death scenario, my phone won't answer calls past 9 PM. Requests for pet-sitting anything bigger than a goldfish or anything requiring live feeding will not be taken. Officially, my knowledge of obscure internet searches for your lost passwords has expired. Now formally, my response to "Can you just...?" is "No, I can't just."

This is not a temporary leave of absence. This is not a negotiation. This is a permanent cessation of duties. I am reclaiming my evenings, my weekends, my sanity, and indeed, my very soul. Sleep will be first on my list. I'll flip through that stack of books. I'll register for that pottery class. If my heart calls for absolutely nothing, I will embrace the great freedom of doing nothing at all. I will let my own needs grow wild instead of tending to the weeds of others.

This resignation is acceptance of self rather than a rejection of love. I am not closing my heart; I am finally tending to my own.

Warmly (but with strict limits, and absolutely no pinecones), Priya Sharma (Formerly of the Unofficial Committee, now simply... Priya, cultivating her own damn peace)