My Immediate Resignation from the Role of "Strong One"

Dear Whoever Assigned Me This Role,

This letter serves as my official resignation from the position of **“The Strong One.”** Effective immediately. No notice. No transition plan. No guilt. I quit.

Please note: this is not a two-week notice. This is a **burn-the-contract, tear-the-uniform, change-my-name-on-the-roster kind of resignation**. I’m not asking permission. I’m informing you. You know who you are—family, friends, society, inner critic, childhood programming, emotional labor task force—I’m talking to all of you.

Let’s start with this: I never applied for this job.

No little kid says, *“I want to grow up and be the one who swallows their pain to keep everyone else comfortable.”* No teenager dreams of being the friend who listens to everyone’s problems at 2 a.m., then cries alone in the shower so no one has to see them fall apart. This role—this persona of “unshakable, dependable, always fine”—was assigned to me like an unpaid internship I couldn’t opt out of.

Somewhere along the way, I was praised for not making a fuss. For not crying “too much.” For keeping it together when others couldn’t. I was called “strong” when I stayed silent. “Mature” when I ignored my own needs. “Reliable” when I ignored my own boundaries. And I believed it. I wore that badge with pride. I thought being needed was the same as being loved.

It’s not.

You called me the glue, but never asked what happens when glue gets brittle. You leaned on me so hard I forgot how to stand upright. You applauded my strength but disappeared the moment I showed softness, or—God forbid—asked for help.

So let me say it loud, since I was so quiet for so long: I resign.

I resign from being your emotional support human.

I resign from answering every message the second it comes in.

I resign from agreeing to plans I don’t want to attend, smiling through conversations I’m not emotionally present for, and carrying burdens that aren’t mine just because I can.

I resign from keeping secrets that eat away at me because I’m “the safe one.”

I resign from translating my anger into palatable language so I don’t seem “too much.”

I resign from bending, shrinking, sacrificing, performing.

I resign from your idea of me.

I am done being the first responder in crises I didn’t cause. I am done playing therapist, crisis line, scheduling assistant, and people-pleaser wrapped into one exhausted, resentful shell of a person. I'm tired of stitching others back together with the thread of my own unraveling.

And while I’m at it, I’m also stepping down from being The Quiet One.

I will no longer swallow my opinions to keep the room comfortable. I will not keep the peace at the cost of my own inner war. I have spent too long biting my tongue so others wouldn’t bleed from truth. I have opinions. Anger. Joy. And I will express them—with volume, clarity, and zero apologies.

Some people are not going to like this new version of me. That’s fine. They liked the actor, not the person. They liked the edited, filtered, emotionally muted version of me—the one who stayed small and agreeable and endlessly helpful.

To those people: I get it. It’s uncomfortable when someone steps off the pedestal you built for them, especially when you got used to them being a stepping stool.

But to those who have loved me through this performance, who held space for my silence and never demanded it—thank you. I’m coming back. Not as a role, but as a person.

I know I’ll have to relearn a few things. Like saying “no” without offering a 5-paragraph essay of justification. Like resting without guilt. Like believing my worth is not tied to what I do for others, but simply that I am.

Let me be clear: this is not a breakdown. This is a breakthrough.

This is me unlearning survival patterns dressed up as personality traits.

This is me turning down the job of being everything to everyone.

This is me choosing myself, maybe for the first time.

I won’t always get it right. I’ll fumble, backtrack, second-guess. But I will not go back to being the one who puts out fires while burning quietly on the inside.

So if you find yourself reaching for the old version of me—the one who says yes too quickly, who smiles through the ache, who always picks up the phone no matter the hour—don’t be surprised when no one answers. That version has officially stepped down.

Gone on permanent leave.

Burned the cape.

If you're looking for someone to never say no, to never break, to always be okay—I suggest hiring a robot.

Because I’m human. I’m soft. I’m fierce. I’m tired. I’m healing.

And I’m finally, finally free.

Sincerely—but no longer silently,

Me

P.S. I won’t be available for follow-ups. Try being your own Strong One for once. It’s character-building.