Resigning From the Role I Never Applied For

Dear Friends, Acquaintances, and Emotional Freeloaders:

After much soul-searching, three sleepless nights, a half bottle of Cabernet, and one highly unnecessary loop of Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All”, I, Anthony, am officially and unequivocally resigning from my unofficial, unpaid, and unappreciated position as Everyone’s Reliable Rock, Personal Therapist, Emergency Lifeguard, Calendar Adjuster, and Default Cheerleader.

This resignation is effective immediately. There will be no two-week notice. No exit interview. No graceful fade-out. I am slamming the emotional timecard, locking the break room, and leaving my metaphorical lanyard and badge on your proverbial desk.

Let me be clear: I never applied for this role. I certainly don’t remember sitting in a waiting room with a resume that read, “Excellent at sacrificing his time, dreams, and mental bandwidth to make other people feel okay, even when he is decidedly not okay.” And yet, somehow, I got the job. Then, got promoted. Next, I was taken for granted. Repeatedly.

A Few Notable Performance Highlights:

• Remember that time a coworker came to me, panicked, whispering about how they were on the verge of being fired? They begged me to speak to my boss, to vouch for their work ethic, their character, their “potential.” I put my neck out. Defended them like a loyal friend in a medieval drama. Pulled strings. Smoothed things over. They kept their job.

Then fast forward six months, and boom: that same person threw me under the bus in a team meeting to make themselves look good. I didn’t even see it coming—too busy still drying them off from the time I saved them from drowning. Newsflash: just because you dive in to save someone doesn’t mean they won’t shove you into the deep end later. Especially if they know you can’t swim. I, unfortunately, learned that lesson the hard way—still coughing up metaphorical pool water, by the way.

• Or how about the dozens of times I raced across town like a rom-com protagonist to meet friends for lunch, dinner, coffee, existential crisis management—and just as I arrived, sweaty and guilt-ridden for possibly being two minutes late, I got a text:

“So sorry! Something came up. Rain check?”

Something came up—every time.

Meanwhile, I had canceled things I cared about—projects, workouts, quiet moments with my thoughts—to show up for these people. Only to be left standing there like an over-committed Golden Retriever, panting at an empty restaurant booth.

• And let’s not forget the parade of times I’ve paused my own goals to lend a hand with your goals. I’ve paused writing deadlines. Deferred job opportunities. Skipped sleep to listen to long-winded break-up stories and give pep talks. But when I reach out for help, the reply is a breezy, “Aww man, that sucks. I’ll be out of town all week, relaxing. Good luck though!”

So Here It Is:

I am resigning from being the overly empathetic, hyper-available, always-listening, never-asking, emotional Sherpa you've come to rely on.

I am resigning from the guilt that creeps in when I don’t pick up the phone.

From the burden of being the dependable one in a world full of people who ghost, cancel, and deflect. From the warped logic that says, “If you love people, you’ll keep showing up for them even when they never show up for you.”

I am resigning from saying yes when every cell in my body is screaming no.

From watering other people’s gardens while mine withers in neglect.

From showing up on time, in spirit, and in support for people who haven’t shown up for me in years.

From pretending that being available to everyone is some moral badge instead of a slow erosion of my soul.

I’m resigning from pretending it doesn’t hurt.

Because it does, it has. And I’ve had enough.

This isn’t bitterness. This is clarity.

I’m still me. I still care. I still believe in helping people. But from now on, I’m starting with myself.

I’ll no longer offer help to people who only remember my number during emergencies.

No longer sacrifice my peace for people who treat it like a vending machine—press a button, get what you need.

No longer drown in obligation while others float merrily by on rafts of convenience and selective memory.

What Happens Next?

I’ll be over here, reclaiming my time and reinvesting in myself, laughing without obligation and crying without shame and dreaming without interruption.

If you want to be part of my life, you’re welcome. But it’s BYOE: Bring Your Empathy.

If you’ve been the friend who shows up? The rare gem who listens back when I speak, or answers when I’m in need. Don’t worry—this letter isn’t about you. You’re the exception. And I cherish you.

But if this letter stings a little? Then yeah. It’s probably about you.

I wish you well.

I wish you growth.

I just won’t be sacrificing my own to fuel yours anymore.

With love (and finally, with boundaries),

Anthony

Former Support Staff to the Emotionally Unavailable

Now Proudly CEO of His Own Damn Life

P.S. For future emergencies, please consult the newly hired intern of your conscience. I hear they’re available nights and weekends.