There’s a strange kind of heartbreak that comes with realizing how people perceive you—not as a whole person with needs and emotions, but as a piece in their puzzle, a resource when they need guidance, a steady presence when they need to unload their worries. But when the roles reverse, when I find myself needing, who is there?
I’ve always been the one looking out for others, showing up, listening, holding space. It’s instinctual—maybe even second nature—but lately, I’ve been asking myself: Who’s looking out for me?
When I was in the hospital, my phone stayed silent. No check-ins, no genuine concern—just polite gestures, performative sympathy. “Let me send you flowers,” they said. Flowers? What am I supposed to do with flowers? I needed support. I needed someone who I could call without feeling like I had to package my pain in a way that made them comfortable. I didn’t want to perform anymore.
And yet, I see my own part in this dynamic. I’ve created space for people to rely on me, and in doing so, I never made space for my own needs. People treat us based on the permissions we give them—how much we allow, how much we absorb, how much we excuse. And the truth is, I’ve allowed this.
Today, I felt like shaking my fists at the world, demanding better, demanding change. But as the hours passed, I turned that frustration inward. I saw my role in this. I saw how I’ve enabled these patterns. And now, as I move forward, I want to change them.
Not by cutting people out, not by shrinking away, but by teaching myself—and those around me—how to be there for me, too.
Because I deserve that.
— Sandy
The Inner Workings of My Thoughts 