17 min read
Have you ever been the person everybody calls?
The one who always figures it out?
The one who knows what to do, who to call, where to go, and how to make something happen?
The person who can be having the absolute worst day of her life and still somehow manage to show up for everybody else?
Yeah.
That's been me for as long as I can remember.
And don't get me wrong, I love my family. I love being a mother. I love helping people, and there's a part of me that genuinely enjoys being someone others can depend on.
But sometimes I sit back and wonder...
When did I become the person who takes care of everybody? And who was taking care of me?
Because somewhere between being a little girl and becoming a grown woman, I learned how to survive, how to provide, and how to keep moving.
But I don't know if I ever really learned how to stop.
I Was Just a Little Girl Trying to Figure It Out
I started working when I was 13 years old.
By 14, I was a mother.
At 15, I moved out on my own, and I dropped out of school for a year so I could work two jobs to support my son.
Two jobs.
Fifteen years old.
Sometimes I say that out loud, and even I have to sit with it for a minute.
Because now, when I see children that age, I see just how young I really was.
I see kids who should be worrying about school, friendships, their first crush, and what they're going to wear tomorrow.
And I think about how I was already trying to figure out how to pay bills and take care of another human being.
I wasn't sitting around thinking about how strong I was becoming.
I was thinking about what needed to get done.
I had a little boy depending on me.
And I was determined to make sure he was okay.
Looking back, I wish I could tell that young girl that she didn't have to have all the answers.
That she was allowed to be scared.
That she was allowed to need help.
But back then, I didn't see it that way.
I just knew I had to keep going.
And that's exactly what I did.
When Survival Becomes Second Nature
There's something that happens when you've had to be responsible for so much at such a young age.
You get used to figuring things out.
Sometimes a little too used to it.
You become the planner, the problem solver, the person who already has three backup plans before anybody else even realizes there's a problem.
And eventually, people start assuming you've got everything under control.
Because you usually do.
Or at least you make it look that way.
But there's a difference between having everything under control and simply not having the option to let things fall apart.
I've experienced homelessness with my children.
I know what it feels like to worry about things that other people may never have to think twice about.
I know what it means to be afraid of what tomorrow might bring while still trying to make today feel normal for your children.
And I know what it's like to put your own feelings aside because the people depending on you need reassurance.
Sometimes you become so focused on making sure everybody else feels safe that you forget you're scared, too.
You don't have time to sit with your emotions.
You don't have time to ask why life is so hard.
You just keep moving.
And after a while, you start believing that's what strength is supposed to look like.
Never stopping.
Never breaking.
Never needing anything.
But I've learned something over the years.
Just because you can carry something doesn't mean it isn't heavy.
I Was a Big Sister, But I Was Also Raising My Brother
One of the things people may not know about my story is that I took on the responsibility of raising my younger brother when I was just 19.
My brother is only eight years younger than me.
Eight years.
We were close enough in age that we could have been growing up and figuring out life together.
Instead, I found myself stepping into a role that required me to be more than his big sister.
I was helping raise him while I was still learning how to be an adult myself.
And I loved him.
Of course I did.
But love doesn't automatically make responsibility easy.
Sometimes people look at what you've done for your family and see sacrifice, loyalty, and strength.
What they don't always see is the young woman behind those decisions.
The one who was still learning.
Still making mistakes.
Still trying to figure out her own future.
And still needing guidance herself.
By the time I was 22, I had already spent years being responsible for other people.
But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
My Last Mother-Daughter Moment
I was 22 years old and preparing to welcome my daughter into the world when I lost my mother.
Even now, there are moments when I think about how much life was happening all at once.
I was raising my son.
I was raising my teenage brother.
I was preparing to become a mother to a little girl.
And I was losing the woman who had helped raise me.
My mother.
There are some losses that leave an emptiness you can't quite explain.
You learn how to live around that emptiness, but it doesn't mean you stop feeling it.
I think about all the conversations we never got to have.
The moments she never got to see.
The questions I wish I could ask her now.
The times I wish I could pick up the phone just to hear her voice.
And then there's one memory that will always stay with me.
I did my mother's hair and makeup for her funeral.
I don't even know how to put into words what that moment meant.
Because under any other circumstances, doing your mother's hair and makeup could be something so simple.
Something ordinary.
Something where you talk, laugh, and maybe even fuss a little because she wants her hair done one way and you think another way looks better.
You know how mothers and daughters can be!
But this time, there was no conversation.
No laughter.
No telling me what she liked or didn't like.
I was doing my mother's hair and makeup for the very last time.
I was caring for the woman who had cared for me.
And when I finished, that was it.
That was our final mother-daughter moment.
Sometimes I think about how I was preparing to bring a daughter into this world while saying goodbye to my own mother.
How I was about to experience another chapter of motherhood without being able to share it with her.
And how, after everything was over, life still expected me to keep going.
My children still needed me.
My brother still needed me.
There were responsibilities waiting for me.
And I still had to figure out how to live without my mother.
I think one of the hardest parts of losing her was realizing that I had lost a place where I could still be somebody's little girl.
I was everybody else's caregiver, but I was still a daughter who needed her mother.
And she was gone.
Grief Doesn't Wait Until You Have Free Time
I wish I could say I took all the time I needed to grieve.
That I allowed myself to fall apart, process everything, and slowly put the pieces back together.
But life didn't happen that way.
There were children to raise.
A household to manage.
Work to do.
Bills to pay.
And people who needed me to be present.
So I did what I had always done.
I kept moving.
And I think that's something a lot of women can relate to.
We lose people we love.
We experience heartbreak.
We go through things that change us forever.
And somehow, the next morning, we're still expected to get up and make breakfast.
Still expected to answer the phone.
Still expected to go to work.
Still expected to know what everybody needs.
Meanwhile, there's a whole world of emotions happening inside us that nobody can see.
And sometimes we don't even know how to explain it.
Because where do you begin?
How do you tell somebody you're exhausted when you've been exhausted for years?
How do you explain that you're grieving something that happened decades ago?
How do you tell people you need help when you've spent your whole life being the one who helps?
Sometimes you don't.
Sometimes you smile, say you're fine, and keep going.
And sometimes that comes at a cost.
The Battles Nobody Knew I Was Fighting
There are parts of my life that haven't been easy to talk about.
Not because I'm ashamed of my journey.
But because some experiences are so personal that finding the words takes time.
I've had moments in my life when the emotional pain became more than I knew how to handle.
I've survived two suicide attempts.
Even writing that feels heavy.
Because I know how much pain was behind those moments.
And I know that people can look at someone who is working, raising a family, accomplishing goals, and taking care of everybody else and never imagine what that person may be experiencing inside.
Sometimes the strongest-looking person in the room is struggling quietly.
Sometimes the woman everybody calls for help doesn't know who to call herself.
And sometimes being surrounded by people doesn't mean you feel understood.
I don't share this part of my story for sympathy.
I share it because it's real.
Because mental health matters.
Because we need to stop assuming that people are okay simply because they continue to function.
And because I know there may be another woman reading this who has been carrying pain that nobody knows about.
I want her to know that needing support doesn't make her weak.
It makes her human.
I also want to be clear that surviving those moments didn't mean every difficult feeling disappeared overnight.
Healing isn't always a straight line.
There are good days, difficult days, and days when you have to remind yourself to give yourself grace.
But I'm grateful that my life continued.
Because there were still beautiful things waiting for me.
Things I couldn't see during some of my darkest moments.
And I'm grateful I've had the chance to experience them.
The Semicolon That Means So Much More Than Ink
I have a semicolon tattoo.
For anyone who doesn't know its meaning, a semicolon represents a sentence that could have ended but continued instead.
And that meaning is deeply personal to me.
My story could have ended. But it continued.
That little symbol reminds me of the chapters I've survived and the importance of continuing to care for myself.
It reminds me that one painful moment doesn't have to define the rest of my life.
That I can ask for help.
That I can have difficult days.
That I don't have to pretend everything is okay.
And that I deserve to be here for the beautiful moments, too.
I don't look at that tattoo and think I have to be strong every second of every day.
I've spent enough of my life believing that.
Instead, I want it to remind me that I'm allowed to be human.
I'm allowed to feel.
I'm allowed to rest.
I'm allowed to need people.
And I'm allowed to keep becoming someone new.
The semicolon isn't just about surviving. For me, it's about giving myself permission to live.
I Wonder Who Was Taking Care of Me
Sometimes I think about all the roles I've played in my life.
Mother.
Sister.
Provider.
Caretaker.
Employee.
Leader.
Problem solver.
The person who makes a way when there doesn't seem to be one.
And I am proud of so much of what I've accomplished.
I really am.
But sometimes I wonder about the girl and the woman underneath all those responsibilities.
Who was checking on her?
Who was asking whether she was overwhelmed?
Who was making sure she was getting enough rest?
Who was reminding her that she didn't have to figure everything out by herself?
And here's the thing.
I'm not saying nobody has ever loved or supported me.
I've had love in my life.
I've had people who cared about me.
My parents were good parents, and I'm grateful for the foundation they gave me.
But there were also things I had to learn on my own.
Things I had to change.
Things I had to unlearn.
And one of the biggest lessons has been understanding that being independent doesn't mean I have to do everything alone.
For years, I was so used to handling things that I didn't always know how to receive help.
You know how that goes.
Somebody offers to do something, and you immediately start thinking about whether they'll do it correctly.
Then you decide it'll be easier to do it yourself.
And before you know it, you're doing everything again!
Sometimes I have to laugh at myself.
Because girl, you cannot complain about doing everything and then refuse to let anybody help!
But when you've spent years depending on yourself, learning to trust other people with responsibilities can take time.
And I'm still learning.
God Never Asked Me to Be Everybody's Everything
My faith has always been an important part of my life.
And when I look back, I can see moments when I believe God was carrying me even when I didn't recognize it.
But I've also learned that faith doesn't mean pretending life isn't hard.
There have been times when my prayers weren't beautiful.
They weren't long.
They weren't filled with perfect words.
Sometimes all I could say was, "God, I need You."
Or, "God, I'm tired."
And sometimes that was all I had.
I believe God knows my heart.
He knows the things I've carried.
The tears I've cried.
The fears I've had.
And the moments when I didn't know what tomorrow would look like.
But something I'm learning is that I don't have to carry everything to prove I have faith.
I can pray and still seek support.
I can trust God and still need someone to talk to.
I can love my family and still establish boundaries.
And I can be grateful for my life while acknowledging that parts of it have been incredibly painful.
I don't believe God created me only to survive one difficult season after another.
I believe there's room in my life for joy.
For peace.
For laughter.
For adventure.
For love.
And for simply enjoying the gift of being here.
I Want to Know the Woman Outside of Her Responsibilities
Here's a question I've been asking myself more often:
Who am I when nobody needs anything from me?
Not somebody's mother.
Not somebody's sister.
Not the person managing work, responsibilities, or everybody else's schedules.
Just me.
What do I like?
What brings me peace?
What makes me feel alive?
What do I want to experience?
And you know what?
I actually have answers!
I love being outside.
I love trees, water, nature, and discovering beautiful places.
I love laughing and having conversations about real life.
I love making memories.
I love seeing new things and experiencing the world.
And sometimes, I just want to sit somewhere peaceful without having to answer a single question.
Not "What's for dinner?"
Not "Where's my...?"
Not "Can you help me with...?"
Nothing!
Just me, some fresh air, and a little peace.
And I've learned that those moments matter.
Not because they make me more productive afterward.
Not because I've earned them by working hard enough.
But because I enjoy them.
Because I'm a person outside of everything I do for other people.
And that person deserves attention, too.
I Want My Children to Learn Something Different
One of the things I think about as my children get older is what I want them to take from my story.
I want them to know that I've worked hard.
That I've made sacrifices.
That I've done my best to provide for them and create opportunities.
But I don't want the biggest lesson they learn from me to be that love requires you to exhaust yourself.
I don't want my daughter to believe that being a strong woman means never asking for help.
I don't want my son to believe that being strong means hiding his feelings.
I want them to know they can be responsible and still enjoy life.
They can love their families without losing themselves.
They can work hard without believing that rest is something they have to earn.
And they can experience difficult moments without feeling ashamed to reach out for support.
I hope they learn from the things I've done well.
And I hope they also learn from the things I've had to figure out along the way.
Because I don't want my children to have to repeat every difficult chapter of my life to understand the lessons I've learned.
I want my experiences to help create a softer path for them, not become a blueprint for what they have to endure.
Maybe I Don't Need to Be Stronger
For most of my life, I've been told how strong I am.
And I appreciate it.
But lately I've been thinking...
Maybe I don't need to become any stronger.
Maybe I've already spent enough years proving I can handle difficult things.
Maybe this chapter of my life isn't about learning how to carry more.
Maybe it's about learning what I can finally put down.
Learning how to say no.
Learning how to accept help without feeling guilty.
Learning how to rest without mentally creating another to-do list.
Learning how to be honest when I'm overwhelmed.
And learning that I deserve relationships where care goes both ways.
Because I don't want to spend my entire life being the woman who takes care of everybody and then look back and realize I never made room for myself.
I want to enjoy the life I've worked so hard to build.
I want to make beautiful memories.
I want to experience new places.
I want to laugh until my stomach hurts.
I want to feel peace without immediately wondering what problem is coming next.
And I want to know what it feels like to be cared for without having to ask a hundred times.
If I Could Talk to the Little Girl I Used to Be
Sometimes I wish I could sit down with that 13-year-old girl who was just beginning to work.
Or the 15-year-old mother trying to support her son.
Or the 22-year-old daughter who was preparing her mother for burial while preparing to welcome a daughter of her own.
I wish I could wrap my arms around her.
I wouldn't give her some long speech about being strong.
She already knew how to do that.
I would tell her she was allowed to be tired.
That she didn't have to know everything.
That she was worthy of love even when she wasn't doing something for somebody else.
That she deserved to feel protected, too.
And that the hardest moments of her life would not be the only moments worth remembering.
I would tell her there would still be laughter.
Still love.
Still adventures.
Still beautiful places to see.
Still opportunities to grow.
And that one day, she would begin to understand something she hadn't been taught nearly enough.
She mattered, too.
Not just as a mother.
Not just as a sister.
Not just as the person everybody depended on.
But as herself.
So, Who Takes Care of the Woman Who Takes Care of Everybody?
I'm still learning the answer.
And I don't think it's supposed to be just one person.
I believe we need people who love us.
People who listen.
People who notice when we're not ourselves.
People who offer support without making us feel guilty for needing it.
And we also have to learn how to extend some of that same care to ourselves.
I'm still a work in progress.
Still learning patience.
Still learning boundaries.
Still learning how to slow down.
And still learning that my worth isn't measured by how many things I accomplish or how many people depend on me.
But I'm proud of the woman I'm becoming.
Not just because of everything I've survived.
But because I'm finally beginning to understand that I deserve more than survival.
I deserve a life filled with moments that make me happy to be here.
And if you're reading this and you've spent your whole life being everybody's strong person, I hope you hear me when I say this:
You don't have to wait until you're completely exhausted to ask for help.
You don't have to earn the right to rest.
You don't have to hide your pain just because people admire your strength.
And you don't have to spend every chapter of your life taking care of everyone except yourself.
You deserve to be cared for, too.
Sometimes I look at my semicolon tattoo and think about everything that has happened since the moments when I almost wasn't here to experience any of it.
The memories.
The laughter.
The love.
The growth.
The ordinary days that turned out to be beautiful.
And I'm reminded that my story is still being written.
There are still places I haven't been.
People I haven't met.
Things I haven't learned.
And versions of myself I haven't become.
For so long, I was focused on making sure everybody else had a life worth living.
Now, I'm learning to make sure I experience mine, too.
And maybe that's where taking care of myself truly begins.
🌿 Today's Little Footstep: Check on the Strong One
This week's challenge is a little different.
Yes, I want you to make time for yourself.
But I also want you to think about the woman in your life who always seems to have everything together.
Your mother.
Your sister.
Your friend.
Your coworker.
The woman who's always helping somebody else.
Reach out to her.
And don't just ask, "How are you?" while already expecting her to say she's fine.
Really check on her.
Ask her how she's doing.
Ask her what she's been carrying.
Ask whether there's something you can take off her plate.
And if she opens up, listen.
You don't always have to fix anything.
Sometimes simply being present means more than you know.
And if you're the woman everybody depends on, I have a challenge for you, too.
Let somebody show up for you this week.
It doesn't have to be something big.
Accept the help.
Have the conversation.
Take the break.
Make the appointment.
Or tell someone you trust that you've been having a difficult time.
You don't have to do everything alone.
A Little Something to Reflect On
If I stopped being everything to everybody for just a moment, what would I need someone to be for me?
Every Step Has a Story.
My Footsteps. Your Footsteps. Walking Together.
— Unfiltered Footsteps
My Footsteps. Your Footsteps. Walking Together.