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FROM THE OUTSIDE, I LOOKED LIKE I HAD IT ALL TOGETHER
I was the woman people came to—dependable, highly capable, driven, upbeat,
trustworthy. The one who knew how to make things happen. I believed it was my
responsibility to smooth over tension, strategize, dream big, and solve for everyone and
anyone.
I was the dependable daughter.
The supportive wife.
The present mom.
The loyal friend.
The talented designer.
The emotional anchor—holding space, keeping the peace, and carrying the secrets.
I could run my own design business, raise two amazing kids, host family holidays (even
when I was sick for most of them), manage our home and cottage, be a loving wife and
business partner, take financial risks in stride, attend company functions, plan birthday
parties, drive to after-school activities, build the deck—and still have dinner ready,
makeup on, and coordinated work clothes.
Many nights, I would crawl into bed completely drained. I’d think, “I gave the day
everything I could… right?”
As I lay there, unpacking the day’s events and mentally preparing for yet another
decision-fatigued morning, tears would form. Then came the breath, the one I hadn’t
realized I’d been holding.
I inhaled purposefully and thought:
I forgot to breathe today.
I’ll do better tomorrow.
I was the strong one.
The capable one.
The safe place.
The woman who could carry it all.
But over time, something inside me began to shift.
It wasn’t a dramatic collapse.
It was quieter than that.
It started with body aches and chronic fatigue doctors couldn’t explain. A constant
tightness in my throat appeared in the rare moments I asked for help. A hollow feeling
grew louder each time the house fell quiet. After years of running on fumes, I finally
realized: I had spent so long holding everyone else up, I had forgotten—or never really
learned—how to hold myself.
Saying no felt paralyzing.
Letting someone down?
Unbearable.
