The Cost of Being Solid: A Story about Burnout, Emotional Labor, and Staying Soft When No One Checks In
Some endings are invisible. Some beginnings feel like remembering. This is the quiet return to yourself.
A behind-the-scenes look at the kind of strength that never makes the highlight reel. For the ones who keep showing up, even when it goes unnoticed. A raw, personal reflection on emotional labor, silence, burnout, and the choice to stay soft when no one checks in.
They don’t notice how much you
hold until you stop holding it. People get used to you being the steady one,
the one who always has the right words, the calm presence, and the solid
ground. You don’t even realize when it starts happening how people stop asking
if you’re okay because you never fall apart in front of them, so you keep
showing up.
You learnt how to carry your own
chaos without making a scene. You’ve always known how to move through a storm
without spilling it on anyone else, even when the weight changes your posture,
even when the tightness in your chest feels like a permanent setting, and even
when your sleep feels like silence and not rest. You knew how to hide the
unraveling.
There were too many people with
louder emergencies. You had the tools, you made space, and you adjusted. You
stayed up later than you should’ve, took calls that drained you, opened your
home, calendar, and bandwidth.
You didn’t keep a tally and you
weren’t playing savior or martyr. You just couldn’t watch things collapse when
you knew you still had enough to hold them up. That part was never about
credit, but something cracks open when people stop seeing you as someone with
limits.
They heal, they move on, they
talk about their growth like you weren’t part of the scaffolding. Suddenly your
support is missing from the story, your presence, your effort, the times you
stood in the gap. It all goes unnamed.
You start noticing the distance
in the details, how light they feel now, and how unburdened. They laugh louder
now and post quotes about boundaries. They joke about how they’ve outgrown
things. Shamelessly rewrite the narrative like you were never in it, like your
quiet holding didn’t matter, like the version where you were exhausted and
still showed up doesn’t belong in their timeline.
You hear what they don’t say,
and when you finally pull back quietly, without a scene, enough to protect your
own energy, they notice that. They call it cold. They call you different. They
suddenly become the victim.
What they don’t see is how long
you stayed in that place, how much of yourself you folded up to keep things
from falling apart, how many times you wanted to speak up and didn’t, how many
times you told them you were fine when what you really wanted to say was that
you needed someone, right then and there.
You carried it in your body. The
tension you couldn’t stretch out; the fatigue that no amount of sleep fixed;
the locked tension in your jaw from all the things you never said; the way your
eyes stayed heavy; the way joy started to feel like a performance. You
still replied with exclamation points and emoji even when your hands wouldn’t
stop shaking.
You made small talk with the
cashier when all you wanted was to leave before your brain short-circuited. You
said "It's all good" just to move things along, even though it
wasn’t. You kept giving, but they never stopped taking until you had to learn
to stop giving. You stayed soft.
You didn’t become bitter, you
didn’t shut people out, and you didn’t stop showing up altogether. That’s the
part they never understand. The strength it takes to stay soft, the decision to
keep showing up when no one’s clapping, and the discipline it takes to stay
open after you’ve learned how temporary support can be.
One night, you sat in your
apartment, lights out, not crying, not breaking, just breathing and needing a
second where no one needed you but no one saw that. No one sees the emotional
labor of being everyone’s anchor. You’re not asking for recognition, you’re
just asking for truth. You were there, you helped hold it all up, and now
you’re allowed to rest without explanation.
This is what survival looked
like when you had no space to break down. This is what quiet strength looks
like when it stops pretending to be invincible. You don’t owe anyone the silent
version anymore. Let it show, let others hold it with you, and let God's
blessings find you, even in the places you once thought had to stay hidden.
If this landed with you,
share it. Send it to someone who might be in their quiet holding season. Leave
a comment or just bookmark it for when you need the reminder that your strength
doesn’t need applause to be valid.
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You were never lost. You were only becoming real.
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