The first time I realized my childhood was over,
I was sixteen, standing in line at a utility office with a shutoff notice in my hand
While other kids worried about prom dates, I worried about overdue notices.
I became the parent my parents refused to be
. But the cost of holding
everyone together was silently destroying m… Continues…
I didn’t have a word for it back then, but now I know: I was parentified.
I became the emotional shock absorber, the accountant, the therapist,
the crisis manager. Every “you’re so mature for your age” was really,
“we’re comfortable letting you drown so we don’t have to change.”
For years, I wore that praise like a medal,
not realizing it was a bruise.
What finally broke me wasn’t a big explosion,
but a quiet realization: no one was coming to rescue me,
and I was no longer willing to rescue everyone else.
I started saying no. No to bailing them out.
No to answering every midnight call.
No to being the family backbone while my own life went numb.
I am slowly learning that I am allowed to be cared for, to rest, to be imperfect.
My worth is no longer measured by how well I hold up other people’s collapsing worl
