There’s always that one person.

The one who keeps asking for advice. The one who spirals, stumbles, apologizes ... and then does the same thing again. And you listen, because you care. Because you don’t want to watch them crash. Because you’ve seen them at their lowest and still believe they could rise.

But over time… something shifts.

It stops being compassion.
Starts becoming a chore.
Then it crosses that invisible line into disrespect.

It’s not that they’re bad people.
It’s that they’re not really listening.
And maybe they never were.

I remember the exact moment I cracked. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t cut them off. I just said ... calmly, maybe too calmly ... “For what it’s worth… I’ve told you this many times. I get it ... my opinion means zero. So I think I’m gonna take a hard pass this time.”

It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it did.

They got quiet. Said it was painful to hear. Said maybe they deserved the pain after all.

And there I was again ... managing someone else’s feelings about the boundary I’d just barely built. Watching my own exhaustion be turned into another rescue mission I didn’t have the strength to fly.

The truth is… I felt bad. I usually do.

But I also felt curious. Fascinated, even. By how the human heart works. By how we bend, shrink, contort to be there for others ... sometimes because we love them, and sometimes because being needed scratches something deep in us.

I won’t pretend I’m above that.
There’s something about being the one people lean on… that raw nerve… that makes you feel alive.

But it also makes you tired.
Because every time I step into someone else’s storm, I postpone my own.
I put off my questions. My healing. My confusion.
I carry their fire… and let mine burn out.

It’s strange ... when I’m sitting with someone in pain, I sometimes feel grateful. Not because I want them to suffer… but because in that moment, I realize how much worse it could be. And that maybe, just maybe, I’ve made it further than I thought.

But it also leaves me wondering:
Does anyone see my wounds?
Would they even recognize them, if they did?

There are people in my life who know me deeply.
But no one holds the full story.

My truth is scattered ... chapter by chapter ... across friends who only know certain versions of me. If they ever met each other, compared notes… I think they’d get a more complete picture than even I’ve seen.

And maybe that’s why this post hurts to write.
Because I’ve spent so much of my life being safe for others…
that I don’t even know what safety looks like for me.

But I’m learning.
I’m learning that saying no isn’t cruelty ... it’s clarity.
I’m learning that not every cry for help is mine to answer.
And I’m learning that if I want to keep showing up for others…
I have to first show up for myself.

Quietly.
Patiently.
Without shame.