Lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking about "luck" and "abundance." Not just in the grand, abstract sense, but in the day-to-day reality of our lives. And I've come to a rather bittersweet realization:
I think I’ve spent a significant part of my life being an instrument for blessings for the people I love, while feeling somewhat "unlucky" or less abundant myself.
It’s a strange feeling to articulate, because on the surface, it sounds like complaining when you've supposedly "helped" others. But it’s deeper than that. It's about being the constant provider of strength, stability, and support, only to find your own well running dry.
Maybe you know the feeling.
In your relationships: You’re the one who always brings emotional intelligence to the table, helps navigate tough times, or provides the steady ground for a partner to build their dreams. You invest, you nurture, and you celebrate their successes, often feeling like you’re pushing a boulder uphill while they're flying high on the other side.
With family: You become the "fixer"—the one who gets the call when things go wrong, the one expected to offer financial support, sage advice, or endless patience. Your shoulders are broad, and everyone leans on them, often without realizing the weight you’re truly carrying.
Among friends: You're the designated listener, the problem-solver, the empathetic ear. People bring their burdens to you, and you help them carry them, offering perspective and support. But when it's your turn to need an ear, the conversation often shifts, or the room feels suddenly empty.
The hardest part? I've become incredibly good at playing this role. So good, in fact, that I think everyone around me genuinely believes I'm "just fine." My competence has become my camouflage. I've made the heavy lifting look effortless, and as a result, the offer of help or even a simple "How are you, really?" often doesn't come.
This isn't about blaming anyone. When you consistently show up as the strong one, people naturally assume you don't need much. They become accustomed to you being the provider, the rock, the unwavering source of support. But underneath that calm exterior is a person who gets tired, who yearns for reciprocity, and who sometimes feels utterly depleted while witnessing the abundance they've helped cultivate for others.
Realizing this has been a wake-up call. Being a blessing to others is a beautiful thing, and I wouldn't trade the joy of helping those I love. But it shouldn't come at the cost of my own well-being. It shouldn't mean constantly being the bridge without ever reaching a destination for myself.
This isn't about becoming selfish, but about practicing radical self-care and, yes, setting some boundaries. It's about slowly, gently, letting down the mask of "just fine" and allowing others to see the real, sometimes tired, human underneath.
Here's what I'm starting to tell myself (and maybe you need to hear it too):
Your worth isn't tied to your usefulness. You are worthy of love and support just for being you, not for what you provide.
You cannot pour from an empty cup. This isn't just a cliché; it's a fundamental truth. Replenishing yourself isn't selfish; it's essential for everyone.
Reciprocity is key. Healthy relationships, families, and friendships involve a two-way street of giving and receiving. If it's always one-sided, it's not truly balanced.
