Rooms I Never Lived In

My whole life has been about being there for others, being the good child, the good sister, the good friend, and the good employee. I have consistently put myself last in everything I have ever done because that’s what was expected of me. I bite my tongue, tamp down my frustration and anger, and smile like it’s not actively eating me alive inside.

But today?

Today I’m done.

It starts with an email. Just one. Innocuous enough—subject line: Urgent: Need You to Cover Again.

Again.

I’m halfway through the sentence before I feel the familiar sting behind my eyes, that rush of blood that comes with knowing—knowing—that I will say yes, again, because that’s what I’ve always done. Because I’m the one they know they can count on. Because I say “of course” instead of “this isn’t my job.” Because I don’t rock the boat.

But something stops me this time. Maybe it’s the fifth missed therapy appointment in a row because I stayed late to help someone else. Perhaps it’s my sister calling me selfish last night for saying I didn’t want to babysit on my only day off. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had a real meal in three days that didn’t involve a vending machine or a lukewarm coffee.

Maybe it’s me. Perhaps I finally broke.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, the ghost of my usual reply already forming. But instead of typing Sure, happy to help, I close my laptop. Just shut it. The slap of plastic meeting the desk is louder than expected in the silence of my apartment. It startles my cat. It startles me.

I sit back. I breathe.

And then I whisper it:

“You know what? I quit.”

Not out loud, not to anyone. Not yet. But the words feel electric in my mouth, like they’re alive. Like something inside me just woke up.

I try it again in the mirror.

“You know what? I quit.”

And this time, I imagine saying it to my boss, the one who’s been “leaning on me” for six months straight while somehow finding time to take three vacations and host a baby shower for her dog. I imagine saying it to my mother, who guilt-trips me for not calling enough, but never once asks how I’m doing. I imagine saying it to my friends, the ones who remember I exist only when they need a ride to the airport or someone to listen to their drama at 2 a.m.

“I quit.”

It doesn’t mean I’m disappearing. It doesn’t mean I don’t love them. It just means I’m done setting myself on fire to keep everyone else warm.

The next morning, I called in to work - first time in two years. I don’t lie, don’t fake a cough—just say I need a day. The silence on the other end is deafening.

I turn my phone off after that.

I sit on my balcony with a real breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee in an actual mug instead of the travel thermos I never properly wash. I put on music I like, not the lo-fi jazz I usually keep on to keep things “calm.” I water my plants. I remember that I have plants.

And then I do something unthinkable. I text my sister.

“I won’t be coming to Mom’s this weekend. I’m taking the weekend for myself.”

The typing dots appear, vanish, and reappear. Then:

“Seriously? You promised.”

I stare at the words.

I promised. Yeah. I did. But I also promised myself I’d stop bleeding for people who didn’t notice they were holding the knife.

“I know. I’m sorry. But I need to stop saying yes when I mean no.”

No reply. That’s fine.

Because just like that, something shifts again.

By Saturday, I’ve made a list. Not a to-do list. A to-don’t list.

Don’t apologize for needing time.

Don’t say yes just to avoid confrontation.

Don’t assume people will leave if you set a boundary, and if they

do, let them.

Don’t confuse being needed with being wanted.

The last one guts me. I stare at it for a long time.

I think about the first time I ever felt like I had to earn someone’s affection. Kindergarten. Sharing my crayons with a girl who didn’t like me unless I gave her the glitter ones. I remember how proud my mom was when I came home and said I made a friend. “Because you were nice,” she’d said. “You’re such a good girl.”

It stuck. That lesson. Be nice. Be good. Be useful.

But maybe I don’t want to be good anymore. Maybe I want to be whole.

On Sunday, I clean my apartment. Not in a manic, stress-fueled, “I’m fine” way, but in a soft, sacred kind of way. I fold blankets. I donate clothes that don’t feel like me anymore. I light a candle, not because anyone’s coming over, but because I like the smell.

I write a letter. Not to anyone else. To me.

You are not lazy for resting.

You are not selfish for protecting your peace.

You are not less worthy because you need help.

You’ve carried everyone else.

It’s okay to put yourself down now, gently.

It’s okay to want softness.

You deserve it.

I cry. For the first time in months. Maybe years. It’s not loud or dramatic. Just a quiet, steady release.

Monday comes. I walk into work early. Not to catch up, not to get ahead—but to hand in my two weeks’ notice.

My boss stares at me like I’ve grown horns.

“But… why?”

I smile. And it’s real.

“Because I’m tired of living a life that doesn’t feel like mine.”

She tries to talk me out of it. Promises a promotion, better hours, and more support.

But I’ve already decided.

I quit.

I don’t have a big plan yet. No dream job waiting in the wings. I have savings and a notebook full of things I used to say I didn’t have time for. I have sleep to catch up on. I have journals to fill. I have people to reconnect with—some I’ll choose to keep, others I won’t.

It’s not a dramatic reinvention. Not a movie montage of new haircuts and impromptu flights to Italy.

It’s quiet. It’s slow.

But it’s mine.

And that’s enough.

For the first time in my life… I am enough.