You are not my savior

Adulthood taught me this. Rent is due whether I’m ready or not. Emails pile up. Promotions pass by. I’ve sat through layoffs, reorgs, managers who didn’t see me, and the quiet ache of “we went in another direction.” I updated the résumé, asked for feedback, learned new skills, and kept going. That was me saving me.


I’ve made bad choices in relationships—texted back when I should’ve let it end, explained myself to silence, stayed for potential instead of reality. I ignored red flags because hope felt easier than change. I’ve also learned to say no, to leave sooner, to pick partners who show up without needing a script. Boundaries are not walls; they’re doors I control.


Illness stripped away pretending. Waiting rooms, tests, results, side effects, fear that wakes at 3 a.m. I kept appointments, took the meds, asked hard questions, told the truth about pain, accepted help when it was wise. Resilience is not magic; it’s a spreadsheet of small choices made daily.


There have been real joys, too. Dogs thumping their tails. A clean kitchen after cooking for people I love. Work that lands. A friend’s laugh on the sidewalk. The first deep breath after a hard conversation that went better than expected. I count those, because they count.


And there’s loneliness—the long weekends, the unanswered calls, the doubts that whisper I’m not enough. I’ve learned to meet that voice with action: go outside, call someone safe, write it out, lift something heavy, drink water, sleep.


So no—you are not my savior. Walk with me if you want, but the steps are mine. I choose, I repair, I try again. I need to save myself, and I am.


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