There’s a particular scent that responsibility leaves behind.
It isn’t the sharp sting of guilt or the warm musk of pride. It’s heavier. A quiet, lingering fog that seeps into every room, every call, every message that starts with “I trust you.”
For years, I’ve been the translator of other people’s chaos.
I could read a sigh before it turned into a sentence, decode a half-finished thought, smooth over an awkward silence with words that made everyone feel understood. That skill, my ability to make sense of noise, became a currency. And like most currencies, it began to cost more than it gave.
I’ve noticed something lately: the smell of responsibility arrives before the words do.
It’s in the way someone pauses before asking for help. In the tone that says, you always know what to say. And I can feel my body recoil, not from unkindness, but from exhaustion. I’ve given so many emotional translations that my own language feels thin.
So I’ve started stepping back. Not out of coldness, but out of preservation.
It’s strange how radical it feels to simply not reply, to resist the urge to fix, explain, or hold space. But I’ve learned that my softness isn’t a public utility. I don’t need to earn rest by proving kindness.
Sometimes staying away is the kindest thing I can do – for myself, and maybe for them too. Because when I no longer smell like responsibility, maybe I’ll finally smell like peace.