Immediate Resignation - Effective Now

Dear Self,

I quit

No, not the job. Not the bills. Not the lease on this apartment that smells vaguely of last week’s microwaved regret and my neighbor’s curry.

I’m resigning from being the Strong One.

You know, her. The quiet one. The chill one. The one who keeps the group chat calm when everyone’s setting themselves on fire. The one who says, “It’s okay, I got it”—even when I don’t. Especially when I don’t.

I’m done.

I’m sitting here on the floor of my apartment, wearing mismatched socks and yesterday’s mascara like war paint. My knees are pulled to my chest, which feels oddly symbolic, like my body is trying to turn back into itself. There’s a cold mug of tea on the windowsill—forgotten again—and the sky outside is doing that perfect melancholy blue that makes you feel poetic and pathetic all at once.

It’s 2:14 a.m., and I just finished crying into a dish towel because I ran out of tissues. That seems about right.

I used to think strength meant silence. Endurance. Saying yes when you mean no because they need you. Because they always fall apart first. Because it’s easier to carry the weight than to deal with the fallout when you drop it.

But that weight? It’s calcified now. Hardened behind my ribs. I can feel it every time I laugh, like I’m pulling something taut that might finally snap.

I’m not writing this for applause.

I’m writing it because I can’t be her anymore.

She—me—whatever—she was the girl who answered texts at 3 a.m. from people who vanished at 3 p.m. the next day. She was the one who showed up early, stayed late, remembered birthdays, and downplayed her own. She made herself small so others could stretch out. She was always the emotional sponge—soaking up everyone’s mess until she leaked her own in silence.

She kept everything inside.

And tonight, everything came out.

Ugly crying. Heaving sobs. The kind of tears that make your face puffy and your head hurt like a bad breakup. Except the breakup is with yourself. And honestly? That’s worse.

There’s no clean way to say this, so I’ll just say it:

I resign from pretending I’m okay when I’m not.

I resign from swallowing my no and burping up guilt.

I resign from being the emotional concierge for people who wouldn’t knock if my light was off.

I resign from carrying everyone else's chaos like it's my goddamn job.

Let someone else be strong for a while. Let someone else do the midnight check-ins, the constant appeasement, the bending and breaking and pretending it's yoga.

You want to know the kicker?

Nobody asked me to be her. Not out loud.

It’s just easier for everyone when I am.

When I make the joke instead of the scene. When I clean the dishes no one thanks me for. When I let the phone ring and ring and still pick up, even when I'm drowning too.

You know what strength really is?

Saying: “I’m not okay.”

And meaning it.

And not rushing to fix it with a punchline or an inspirational quote or a damn Pinterest board about healing.

So here's the truth: I am not okay. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m grieving parts of me I handed out like party favors. I don’t want to hold space right now. I want to take up space. Loud, messy, inconvenient space.

And this apartment—God bless its tiny, crooked floors—is the first place I’ve ever screamed without flinching at the echo.

It echoed back like a friend.

I don’t know who I’ll be now. Without the title. Without the mask. But I think she’ll be someone who says “no” without a PowerPoint presentation of excuses.

Someone who cries without apologizing for the mess.

Someone who leaves the group chat on read if she’s not in the mood.

Maybe someone who makes tea and drinks it before it goes cold.

So, to whom it may concern—(and I hope that includes me):

This is my official resignation from being the Strong One.

Effective immediately.

No two weeks’ notice. No handover. No guilt.

Find someone else to hold your world together. I’ve got mine to rebuild.

And this time, I’ll build it with walls that don’t collapse every time someone leans too hard.

– Me

Former Strong One

Currently: Human, healing, and absolutely off-duty