I Resign From Being a Rock

To Whom It May Concern (which sometimes feels like it’s no one but me),

I hereby resign.

Not from a job (those come and go like seasons these days). Not from motherhood (though even saints would shudder at the hours). I resign from being a rock. The Strong One. The One Who Always Figures It Out. The One Who Smiles While Drowning. Stoic like my father, silent like survival taught me to be—while inside, I’m breaking in a thousand furious ways.

People think I’m cheerful. Easy to talk to. Like I must not have to try that hard. But they don’t see the fight. They don’t see the mountain I’ve been dragging for years, mistaking it for ease just because I keep going. They never have.

Effective immediately. No two weeks. No transition plan. Just—I'm done.

I resign from holding everyone else up while no one notices I’ve sunk to my knees just trying to hold up the weight. From filling out forms, whispering affirmations, nodding while people talk about “next time,” while I’m rationing pent-up emotion, broken promises, and the rising cost of survival in the same breath I use to soothe my child.

I resign from absorbing praise that feels more like pity. From being someone else's redemption arc. From being told I’m amazing while silently wondering if anyone would notice if I just disappeared into the edge of the world.

I resign from bootstraps that never existed, and morals I bent until they cracked, just to make sure we could afford rent and keep existing in society. I resign from being the budget, the backup, the breadwinner, the break room, the body everyone leans on, while mine aches from the inside out.

I resign from performing gratitude while holding my breath. I am grateful. I’m privileged to work so hard. I’m also angry. Tired. Bone-deep tired. Soul-deep tired. Tired of pretending to be resilient when really, I’m just resourceful under pressure that probably should never have existed in the first place.

I resign from fixing. From explaining. From softening my needs so others don’t feel uncomfortable. I will not translate my pain into palatable metaphors anymore. It hurts. I’m bleeding. And no, I don’t want to hear how brave I am for not crying in public, because sometimes, I do that too.

I resign from scarcity dressed as independence. From survival being mistaken for strength. I resign from being the emergency exit, the default plan, the miracle worker with no room to breathe, and forgotten shoes in the rush. I resign from invisible labor and emotional overdrafts.

I resign from carrying the weight of a family on my own, knowing full well that if I stopped, the whole thing would collapse. I resign from clinging to every stray promise that this time—this time—it’ll get better.

I resign from pretending it didn’t break something in me when he said he felt redeemed after a month away, while I’ve spent five years surviving on fumes.

I resign from being the one who keeps the peace when what I need is a revolution.

I resign from apologizing for wanting a simple life. From apologizing for being angry. From apologizing for not being grateful enough. From apologizing for not being able to carry it all anymore.

I was raised to take care of the people who should have taken care of me. And I did it. For years. I did it while building a family. While losing jobs. While holding my son’s hand and pretending I wasn’t afraid. But I’m done.

I want to sit in a field of flowers and not feel like I have to earn it.

I want to stand by the ocean without calculating what else I should be doing.

I want to feel like a human again.

I don’t want to be a martyr or a mascot. I want to be held, cared for, and cherished.

So I resign.

Let someone else be the rock. I’ve carried the mountain long enough. I’m going to be the tide for a while.

Signed,

The Rising Tide