Subject: I Resign from Being the Family’s Emotional Support Llama

Dear Entire Damn World,

Effective immediately, I hereby resign from my lifelong, unpaid, emotionally exhausting position as The Strong One™. Yes, the one who smiles when her heart is choking on its own blood. The one who organizes your birthday parties, remembers your dog's neutering appointment, and nods along while you trauma-dump mid-toilet flush at family dinners.

I. Am. Done.

Do you hear me, universe? I QUIT.

Respectfully, of course.

Background:

I don’t remember applying for this role. I was likely assigned it in the womb, probably during some fateful “soul meeting” where everyone else ran to grab the Drama Queen, Black Sheep, and Mysteriously Successful Cousin roles—and I, the last one in line (late, because I stopped to tie someone else’s spiritual shoelaces), got stuck with “Strong One Who Carries Generational Baggage Like a Sherpa with No Health Insurance.”

My Job Description (which, by the way, I never signed):

Maintain constant emotional availability.

Listen to others vent, cry, rage, or existentially spiral.

Never reciprocate. Never break. Never say, “Hey, I think I’m dying inside.”

Say yes, even when your spine is crumbling.

Be the duct tape holding everyone else’s mental health together, even when you're being used to fix a Titanic-sized hole.

Smile. Always smile. Especially when you want to scream. Bonus points if you make a casserole while doing it.

Well, guess what?

The duct tape is frayed. The casserole is burnt. And the llama is spitting.

Why I’m Resigning:

Let’s start with the fact that I’m exhausted. Not tired. Not sleepy. Not "might need a nap." I mean soul-deep, marrow-melting, carry-me-out-on-a-stretcher kind of exhaustion.

I’m tired of:

Translating your passive-aggression into peace treaties.

Saying, “It’s fine,” when it is absolutely not fine.

Being praised for my strength while no one notices I’m drowning in invisible cement.

The other day, I cried in the grocery store because I dropped a potato. A potato. One slippery, judgmental Yukon Gold broke the dam. I wept like it had insulted my grandmother. That’s when I knew: the llama has had enough.

You Want Specifics? Here:

To my mother: I am not your therapist. I am your daughter. I am not equipped to handle your unresolved teenage trauma about your 1976 prom night or your fifth divorce. Also, I do not care if Aunt Carol “looked bloated” at Easter. Neither should you.

To my best friend: I love you, but if you tell me one more time about Chad and how he “probably didn’t mean to cheat,” I will glue your phone to a therapist’s office door. With industrial epoxy.

To my boss: I’m not your emotional support animal. Stop crying in my office every time Deborah from accounting says “per my last email.” That’s not bullying. That’s formatting.

To society: No, I’m not “just naturally calm.” I’m emotionally constipated from 29 years of swallowing my rage so everyone else could digest theirs in peace.

New Boundaries Effective Immediately:

If I need to scream, I will. In public. Possibly at Trader Joe’s. You’ve been warned.

I will now say no like it’s a complete sentence, not a negotiation.

I will take naps, ghost group chats, and cancel brunch without guilt.

I will cry when I need to cry, laugh when it’s wildly inappropriate, and wear mismatched socks to your baby shower if I feel like it.

I will stop performing emotional CPR on people who keep flatlining for attention.

Some FAQs You Might Be Thinking:

Q: But who will take care of us now?!

A: Try literally anyone else. Or yourself. Revolutionary, I know.

Q: What if people think you’re selfish?

A: I will hand them a mirror and a one-way ticket to therapy.

Q: Aren’t you scared to let go of this identity?

A: Terrified. But I’m more scared of dying with a to-do list longer than my obituary.

Final Notes:

Being The Strong One taught me a lot. I learned how to hold space for others, how to love fiercely, how to survive emotional hurricanes with nothing but a half-broken umbrella, wet socks, and a raincoat made of recycled guilt. I became fluent in silent endurance. I knew how to smile while swallowing grief, how to listen without speaking, how to nod while internally screaming.

But now?

Now, I want to dance in the rain. Or scream at it. Or nap through it with noise-canceling headphones and a mug of “not my problem” tea. My emotional availability is going on permanent sabbatical. My voicemail now says: “Hi, you’ve reached someone who is no longer available to absorb your existential dread. Please scream into a pillow, consult a journal, or seek licensed help. Goodbye and good luck.”

If that sounds harsh, that’s okay. Healing sometimes requires honesty with sharp edges.

Thank you for the memories—truly. But from here on out, I choose peace. I choose boundaries. I choose me.

Please see yourselves out.

Sincerely,

Your Former Emotional Support Llama

(P.S. I'm keeping the fuzzy blanket. I need it more than you do. Also, I’ve hidden the spare key to my emotional warehouse. No, you can’t have it.)