RESIGNATION OF A FORMER HUMAN RESOURCE

To Whom It May Concern,

Effective immediately, I hereby resign from the position of Holding Everything Together.

This includes (but is not limited to):

• Keeping the peace at all costs

• Swallowing every grief so no one else has to taste it

• Making myself smaller, quieter, less inconvenient

• Being the first one called and the last one thanked

• Nodding when I wanted to scream

• Showing up, stitched together, while falling apart

I didn't sign up for this. You never asked, and I never agreed—at least not in any way that mattered. Somewhere along the line, I got cast in this role: dependable, unshakeable, available. I don't recall auditioning, but I played the part so well you made it a series regular.

Maybe it started in childhood—the first time someone said "You're so mature for your age" when what they meant was "Thanks for not having needs." Or perhaps it was that moment when I realised that keeping quiet kept everyone comfortable, and everyone's comfort became my responsibility.

I learned early that my value was measured in my usefulness. Good grades weren't enough—I had to be the peacemaker when my parents fought. Athletic wasn't enough—I had to be the one siblings came to with their problems. Capable wasn't enough—I had to be indispensable.

And somewhere in that training, I lost the difference between being helpful and being used.

I became your bridge over troubled waters. Your crisis hotline. Your sponge for guilt and your sounding board for chaos. I was told it was strength, when really, it was silence. Endurance, when really, it was erasure.

You called me a "rock," but rocks don't bend, they break. And they don't bleed when they do.

Do you know what it feels like to carry everyone else's emergencies in your body? It lives in my shoulders at the base of my spine—a permanent tension that no massage can reach. It sits in my stomach—a knot of anxiety about who might need what next. It echoes in my ears and in my chest—a hollow space where my own needs used to live before I gave them away, piece by piece, year by year.

I've had sleepless nights worrying about other people's problems while my own dreams gathered dust. I've canceled my own plans so many times that I stopped making them. I've said "I'm fine" so often that I almost believed it myself, but never entirely.

But our bodies keep score, even when we pretend they don't. And mine is tired of being a storage unit for everyone else's unprocessed emotions.

So here it is. My resignation. Unequivocal. Unapologetic. Unashamed.

I'm handing back the invisible badge I never asked to wear. The one that read Fixer. Diplomat. Emotional dump. It's yours now, or no one's. Either way, it's no longer mine.

If you need strength, look in a mirror. If you need peace, ask for it. If you need saving, learn to swim.

I'm done being your raft.

Because here's the truth you never wanted to hear: while I was steadying everyone else, I drifted so far from myself I nearly forgot I had a name. While I was holding the line, I lost my own voice in the noise.

This role—this persona you kept applauding—came at a cost. And I've paid it in years I can't get back, relationships I couldn't fully be in, and a spine worn down from bearing too much that was never mine.

This wisdom came at 3 AM on a Tuesday when I realised I couldn't remember the last time someone asked how I was doing—and meant it. Or when they listened to the reply. When I couldn't recall the last time I said no without immediately apologising for it. When I understood that somewhere along the way, I had become a service, not a person.

I started keeping track. Three months of documenting every favour asked, every crisis managed, every emotional mess I cleaned up that wasn't mine. The tally was staggering. But more staggering was the silence when I needed the same support in return.

That's when I knew: this wasn't love. This wasn't even friendship. This was a transaction where I was both the product and the payment.

There is no severance package, no farewell party. Just a quiet, firm enough.

Enough of dimming the lights so others can shine. Enough of absorbing dysfunction and calling it loyalty. Enough of being expected to manage everyone's emotional weather while being denied my own forecast.

I know what you'll say. That I was "so good at it." That "we didn't know you were struggling." Of course you didn't. I wasn't allowed to. That was part of the job description, wasn't it? Be strong. Be silent. Be available. But never, under any circumstances, be messy. Be angry. Be human.

I'm not angry. Not really.

But I am tired.

And that tiredness is wisdom now.

It's the wisdom that says boundaries are not barriers—they're bridges to something healthier. It's the wisdom that says being needed isn't the same as being valued. And it's the wisdom that says: I am done.

I'm reclaiming my time, my space, my softness. I'm taking back the laughter I swallowed, the tears I postponed, and the dreams I shelved because someone else needed help moving furniture—literal or emotional.

Going forward, my availability has office hours. My empathy comes with limits. My help comes with conditions—starting with reciprocity and basic respect for my humanity.

I will no longer be the emotional dumping ground, the crisis manager, or the person who sacrifices their peace for everyone else's comfort. I will no longer perform strength to make others feel secure in their weakness.

This doesn't make me selfish. It makes me selective. There's a difference between being kind and being used, between being loving and being a doormat, between being strong and being everyone's unpaid therapist.

If you're looking for a new "go-to," a new fixer, a new fallback—may I recommend therapy? Or perhaps taking turns?

I'll still love deeply. I'll still care fiercely. But I won't do it as a martyr. I won't sacrifice my wholeness for the comfort of those who wouldn't do the same for me.

I'm choosing me. Not instead of others, but alongside them. Not in opposition to love, but in service of a healthier version of it.

So no, this is not a breakdown.

This is a breakthrough.

And it's not a tantrum—it's a testimony.

You can keep your scripts, your labels, your expectations. I'm rewriting the role in my own words now.

And those words are:

No. Not today. Not anymore.

Sincerely, (though not yours),

I'm still working that one out.