To Wholm It Apparently Concerned

Effective immediately, I hereby resign from my position as The Strong One™. Yes, that’s right, hang up the cape, fold the tissues, return the unpaid therapist badge. I’m done. Not retiring. Not on sabbatical. Done, as in: fire me, evict me, roll me out the back like unwanted furniture. I will not be lifting another goddamn emotional couch.

Let me be clear: I never applied for this job. I didn't see a listing that read:

“Wanted: One emotionally bulletproof man, capable of suppressing grief, desire, fear, anger, and mild-to-medium panic attacks. Must maintain stoic expression at family funerals and remember everyone’s birthday. Fluency in silence required. Benefits include resentment, ulcers, and frequent misidentification as ‘unbothered.’”

But somehow, I got it anyway.

They say men don’t talk about feelings. But you know what? I used to. Until I learned that silence buys you more peace than honesty ever did. Until the first time I told someone I was tired and they replied, “You? You’re always fine.”

I started believing them.

I was ten when I first felt the weight of it. My mom crying in the laundry room, pretending to fold socks while she folded in on herself. I didn’t cry. I made her tea. I vacuumed the hallway.

And someone, probably an aunt, ruffled my hair and said, “Look at you, being the man of the house.”

I was ten.

And damn it, if I didn’t take that seriously.

I’ve been taking it seriously ever since.

I was the guy who held the hair back. Who drove drunk friends home. Who answered late-night texts from exes I should’ve blocked. Who kept secrets no one had the right to whisper into my ears. I was the guy who canceled his own breakdowns because someone else’s felt more urgent.

I said “yes” when I meant “I’m exhausted.”

I said “it’s fine” when it absolutely wasn’t.

I swallowed grief like it was nothing but dry cereal.

You ever clench your jaw so long you forget what your own voice sounds like?

Yeah. That.

There’s this look people give you, maybe you’ve seen it, when you don’t flinch. Like you’re carved out of steadiness. Like you should be okay, because you always are.

But being the “strong one” is like being a dam. You’re not praised for holding everything back. Not really. You’re only noticed when you crack.

And I cracked.

I cracked on a Tuesday. No symbolism. No warning. I was microwaving leftover pasta, and the microwave dinged and I just... sat on the floor. Couldn’t tell you why. Couldn't even cry. Just sat there. Eyes open. Fork in hand. Cold marinara sauce steaming behind me like an abandoned rescue flare.

That was the moment I knew.

I don’t want to be this version of myself anymore.

Not just the “strong one.”

But the quiet one.

The obedient one.

The one who says, “No worries,” when he’s full of worries.

The one who doesn’t call back. Doesn’t demand love. Doesn’t ask for help.

Let me say it again for the people in the back:

I’m. Done.

Done playing this role like it was a birthright.

Done carrying your heartbreak while pretending I didn’t have any of my own.

Done being the emotional landfill where everyone drops their mess and expects gratitude in return.

You want the truth?

I want to yell sometimes. Loud, ugly yelling. I want to say, “No, I can’t help you move this weekend.” I want to ghost a text and not feel like I’m committing treason. I want to cry during commercials and not apologize. I want to be loved without auditioning for it.

I want to scream into a pillow and not explain it.

I want to say, “That hurt me,” and not feel like a child.

I want to stop rehearsing for peace and finally start living in war, if that’s what it takes to get free.

Because peace, for me, has meant disappearing.

And I miss myself.

You know the worst part?

People liked me better like that. Quiet. Reliable. Predictable.

The good man. The strong man. The one who doesn’t ask for too much.

But that version of me is a ghost with good posture.

That version of me is a statue, admired, untouched, and cold as hell.

I’m not him anymore. I was never just him.

There’s a boy still inside me. I see him now. Not strong. Not silent. But alive.

He laughs too loud. He needs too much. He feels everything all at once, like a firehose with no off switch.

He’s been locked up for decades behind clenched teeth and tight shoulders and perfect answers.

But he’s still here. I’m letting him out.

So, if you see me walking around and I’m not holding everyone together, congratulations. That means I’m finally holding myself.

If you hear me say, “Actually, no, I can’t,” and it startles you — good. Get used to it.

If you think I’m selfish now that I’ve quit being your emotional scaffolding, thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever accidentally said to me.

Let me be clear.

I’m not sorry.

Not for quitting. Not for unraveling. Not for finally asking for the kind of love I’ve given out like Halloween candy for thirty damn years.

And no, there will not be a transition plan.

I’m not training my replacement.

If you need someone to vent to at 2 a.m., maybe try a therapist.

If you’re confused why I didn’t text back, maybe reread the last ten years of me showing up when I was dying inside.

And if you think this is just a phase, then you’ve never listened to a single thing I’ve said.

I'm not being dramatic. I’m being honest.

Something I haven't let myself be in a long, long time.

Maybe you’ll miss the version of me who bent himself into origami just to fit into your comfort zones.

Maybe you’ll wish I stayed soft-spoken, agreeable, hollow.

But I won’t.

I am not your emotional support animal.

I am not a cushion for your bad decisions.

I am not a container for your rage, or your loneliness, or your fear of being alone.

I am not the strong one. Not anymore.

I am a man with a spine now.

And I plan to use it.

Respectfully,

Finally,

Fully,

Me