I’m starting to think I’m the problem.
Because everyone leaves.
Not when I’m charming.
Not when I’m strong.
Not when I’m functioning like a neatly packaged solution.
But when I’m human.
When I start showing cracks.
When I need instead of give.
When I ask for softness, not strategy.
That’s when they start to disappear.
My siblings?
They want access. Updates. Availability.
But not my grief. Not my exhaustion.
When I say I’m not okay, it’s “you complain too much.”
It’s silence. It’s distance.
They love the useful version of me. The helper. Not the hurting.
My boyfriend?
He vanished the moment I asked to be held emotionally.
Said he couldn’t be what I needed.
What I needed was presence.
What I got was abandonment dressed as honesty.
The office?
They wanted brilliance. Calm. Emotional intelligence.
Until I stopped keeping my mess off the table.
Until I stopped masking.
Until I said, “I’m exhausted.”
Until I set boundaries. Asked for structure.
Refused to perform enthusiasm where there was no direction.
I didn’t cry in meetings. I didn’t spiral.
I simply stopped carrying what wasn’t mine.
I expected leadership to lead.
I expected roles to be respected.
And that’s when I became inconvenient.
Suddenly, I was difficult. Not “a fit.”
Even my parents—
They love to be heard.
They love when I help them think, solve, support, soothe.
But my pain? My fear? My feelings?
Too much. Too inconvenient. Too emotional.
If it’s not about them, they tune out.
I’ve had to mother my own mother’s emotions.
Coach my father through his decisions.
Be available. Be present. Be quiet about my own chaos.
So what now?
Do I return to the mask?
Smile. Perform. Function.
Make everyone comfortable—except me?
The thing is, I can’t.
The mask no longer fits.
There is no capacity left to pretend.
I am too tired to shrink.
Too depleted to curate my suffering.
And now I’m sitting with the brutal truth:
Maybe being real means being alone.
Because the minute I stopped being everyone’s idea of “strong,”
they all slowly stepped away.
And it wrecks me.
Not because I need rescuing—
But because I finally admitted I wasn’t okay, and all I got was silence.
I’ve bled for this family.
Bent backwards for this job.
Loved quietly and deeply in a relationship where I asked for so little.
And the moment I needed something back—
Everyone disappeared.
So maybe I am the problem.
Or maybe I’m just not what people want when I’m not performing.
Maybe what they wanted was convenience in a human costume.
Not someone with needs. With boundaries. With pain that leaks into the room.
So here it is:
If you’re still here—reading this—
You should know:
I’m not fixing myself to keep you.
You either see all of me and stay,
or you don’t get to stay at all.
And if that means I’m left walking alone through this rubble—
Fine.
At least I’ll be walking as me.
No mask. No edit. No compromise.
Just truth.
Even if no one stays long enough to witness it.