I have a habit of saying, “It’s fine, I’ll sort it.”
And most of the time, I do.
Something needs arranging? I’ll sort it.
There’s a problem? Give me a minute.
Someone I love is worried? I’m already thinking about what can be done.
For a long time, I thought this was simply part of who I was.
Capable.
Responsible.
The person who gets on with things.
What I didn’t notice was how easy it had become to be the person everybody could lean on while rarely asking myself what I was leaning on.
There is a particular kind of tiredness that comes with always being the one who remembers.
Not just appointments.
You remember what needs replacing.
What needs paying.
What somebody said three weeks ago that told you they weren’t quite themselves.
You notice changes in people’s moods.
You think ahead.
You carry the things nobody else even realises need carrying.
And because you’re good at it, people assume you’ve got it.
Sometimes you assume it too.
I know I did.
“I’m fine” can become a very efficient answer
There have been times when somebody has asked me how I am and I’ve said “fine” almost before they’ve finished the question.
Not because I was hiding some enormous secret.
Sometimes I genuinely didn’t know what else to say.
How do you explain that nothing is necessarily wrong, but you’re tired of being responsible for so much?
How do you say that you’re grateful for your life and still occasionally wish somebody would tell you:
I’ve got this one. You don’t need to think about it.
I’ve learned that two things can be true at once.
You can love the people who need you and sometimes feel exhausted by being needed.
You can be proud of how independent you’ve become and wish you didn’t always have to be.
You can cope and still need care.
You can be strong and still want somewhere soft to land.
None of those things cancel each other out.
Motherhood made me understand this differently
Becoming a mother changed my understanding of responsibility.
There is always something running quietly in the background of my mind.
What needs doing tomorrow?
Have I remembered everything?
Is she okay?
Did I handle that properly?
Should I have noticed something sooner?
And then there are the ordinary things. Dinner. Laundry. School. Work. Forms. Shopping. Bedtime. The thing you suddenly remember at 10:47 at night.
Life doesn’t stop because you’re emotionally tired.
The next morning still arrives expecting breakfast.
I wouldn’t trade being a mother for anything.
But I’ve stopped pretending that loving someone deeply means never finding the responsibility heavy.
It can be beautiful and exhausting.
Funny and frightening.
Ordinary and enormous.
Sometimes all before lunchtime.
I became very good at putting myself at the bottom of my own list
I’ll rest after I’ve finished this.
I’ll book that appointment later.
I’ll sit down once everything is done.
I’ll start doing something for myself when life calms down.
The problem is that “everything” is never done.
There is always another email.
Another load of washing.
Another decision.
Another tomorrow quietly preparing its own list.
Eventually I had to ask myself a question I wasn’t particularly comfortable with:
Why did everybody else’s needs qualify as important before mine did?
I didn’t have a beautiful answer.
I still don’t.
But the question stayed with me.
I’m learning that being needed isn’t the same as being nourished
This has probably been one of the harder lessons.
Being useful can feel good.
Being dependable can become part of your identity.
And when you’ve spent years being the one who handles things, receiving care can feel strangely uncomfortable.
You say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”
You refuse help before you’ve even considered whether you need it.
You tell yourself other people have more important things going on.
You minimise your own tiredness because technically you’re still managing.
I recognise that version of myself.
I’m trying to interrupt her occasionally.
Not with some dramatic reinvention of my life.
With smaller things.
Leaving something until tomorrow.
Saying I don’t have the capacity for something.
Allowing somebody to help without immediately trying to repay the favour.
Taking an hour for myself without mentally presenting evidence for why I’ve earned it.
I’m still learning.
So, who looks after you?
I don’t mean who would come if there were an emergency.
I mean something quieter.
Who asks how you are and waits long enough to hear the real answer?
Where do you go when you don’t want to be sensible for a while?
What part of your life belongs to you without requiring you to perform, provide, fix or organise anything?
And when nobody else notices that you’re running low, do you notice?
That last question is the one I’ve been sitting with.
Because perhaps part of growing isn’t becoming endlessly self-sufficient.
Perhaps it’s learning to recognise when we’ve been carrying too much before our bodies and minds have to shout it at us.
I’m not interested in becoming someone who never needs anybody.
I don’t think that’s strength anymore.
I want to become someone who can give without disappearing inside the giving.
Someone who can love people fiercely without believing love requires complete self-neglect.
Someone who remembers that she is a person in her own life too.
I’m still meeting that version of myself.
Maybe you are too.
A page for you
If you have a notebook nearby, don’t think too hard about these. Write whatever arrives first.
Something I’m carrying that nobody really sees is…
I find it hardest to ask for help when…
The last time I felt genuinely looked after was…
Something I keep postponing for myself is…
If somebody said, “I’ve got this one,” I wish they would take care of…
And one final question:
What would change if I stopped waiting until I was exhausted to take care of myself?
You don’t have to do anything with your answers tonight.
Sometimes noticing is enough for one day.
If you found yourself somewhere in this page…
That’s why I created The Morish Journal.
Not to fill your inbox with daily advice or tell you how you should live your life.
I wanted somewhere for the thoughts we don’t always say aloud.
The complicated ones.
The unfinished ones.
The things we’re still becoming brave enough to admit to ourselves.
If that sounds like something you’d like to have in your life, you can join the journal below.
I’ll send new reflections, private journal prompts and occasional letters for the days when you might need somewhere quiet to land.
No pretending you’ve figured everything out.
You can arrive exactly as you are.
Elorine
From The Morish Journal