The Reliable One
She was tired of being the reliable one.
The one who double-checked the deadlines, who sent the “just confirming” emails, who remembered the birthdays and carried the weight of a team that had long since stopped noticing who did the heavy lifting.
Her name became shorthand for competence. But not gratitude. Just the silent assumption that if she didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done.
Around her, others seemed to float. They’ve move on, get promoted, sipping wine under Tuscan sunsets, posting carousel photos of engagement rings and “we said yes” smiles. They looked effortless. She felt like effort personified.
She didn’t begrudge their joy, or so she claimed. But something in her twisted at the ease of it all. How did they seem to get what she couldn’t, while doing less?
She could trace it back, if she tried. To the “are you really wearing that?” comments. To the once-over glances and the “what have you done to your hair?” critiques. To every time she explained something she’d studied for years, only to hear: “Well, I don’t think that’s true.”
Her mother only knew opinions. Her father only knew silence. Together, they taught her that no matter how well she performed, she still wouldn’t be quite right.
And so she grew up thinking: try harder.
Work more. Say less. Be correct, be unshakable, do as we say.
But there’s a quiet cruelty to being enough for everyone else, except yourself.
The victimhood had crept in softly, like damp through the walls.
It was logical, even deserved.
It made sense that she’d feel tired. That she’d feel overlooked.
But it had become a posture, a lens, an identity.
It was her war cry: woe is me.
It was her anchor. And her cage.
Her therapist paused in their usual ritual of reflective nods. And then asked her, in a voice so quiet it cut clean:
“Who are you, when no one needs you to be strong?”
The question sat there.
Something stirred.
The grey glaze in her eyes began to flicker. Not gone. But softening.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t have an answer.
And for the first time, that felt like a beginning.
Held too much, too long
Cracks form under calm silence
Who am I, unproven?