Recently my therapist asked me to think about a question that I’ve probably thought about a thousand times but never gave it the space in the playbill that it truly deserved.
“If no one expected you to be the strong one… who would you be?”
& so I did what I do – wrote about it.
.
.
.
I’d probably sleep.
Not metaphorically.
Not in some poetic “rest for my soul” kind of way.
I mean I’d wake up, roll over, look at the clock and think,
“You know what? That sounds like Tomorrow Me’s problem.”
She deserves a turn.
I’d stop rehearsing conversations that haven’t happened.
I’d stop reading people’s facial expressions like they’re SAT vocabulary words.
I’d stop assuming silence means someone is leaving.
I’d stop carrying emotional jumper cables everywhere in case someone else’s life won’t start.
I’d let somebody else remember the birthdays.
Plan the trip.
Come up with a solution before it’s an urgent issue.
Fix the spreadsheet.
Call customer service.
Google the weird rash.
Be the designated adult.
Imagine that.
A world where I don’t instinctively become the project manager of everyone’s existence.
I’d cry sooner.
Not because I’m falling apart.
Because maybe tears weren’t designed to be stored in a warehouse until inventory overflowed.
I’d ask for help before I had a twelve-point action plan, three backup plans, a color-coded spreadsheet and a motivational speech prepared for everyone involved.
I’d say,
“I’m not okay.”
…and then I’d do something absolutely revolutionary.
I’d shut up.
I’d let the awkward silence exist without immediately following it with, “But it’s fine!”
“Don’t worry about me!”
“I’ve got it!”
*Insert inappropriate joke here to make everyone else comfortable*.
I’d stop confusing being useful with being worthy.
That one stings a little.
Because somewhere along the way I started believing love was earned through usefulness.
Be funny.
Be helpful.
Be successful.
Be low maintenance.
Need nothing.
Handle everything.
Congratulations, Desiree.
You’ve accidentally become a Swiss Army knife with unresolved childhood trauma.
I’d be softer.
Not weaker.
There’s a difference.
I’d still laugh too loudly.
Still wear leopard print like it’s a personality trait.
Still apologize to chairs after bumping into them.
Still make dead dad jokes at wildly inappropriate times because if I lose my sense of humor, somebody should probably check my pulse.
But maybe…
I’d let people earn front-row seats instead of handing them backstage passes the minute they’re kind to me.
I’d stop believing every goodbye is proof I wasn’t enough.
I’d believe people when they say,
“I’ve got you.”
Without immediately wondering,
“Yeah… but for how long?”
Who would I be?
I’d still be me.
Just…
Less survival.
More living.
Less “I can carry it.”
More “Can you help me carry this one?”
Less proving.
More existing.
I’d still be the woman who loves with her whole heart.
Who leads villages.
Who cheers the loudest.
Who believes people can heal.
Who laughs in the middle of chaos because sometimes that’s the only reasonable response.
But I’d finally understand something my younger self never could.
Strength was never supposed to be my personality.
It was just the role I learned to perform after too many people forgot they were supposed to protect the little girl starting in the show.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
She’s finally old enough to take her final bow.
I think that’s the version of me I’m still becoming. Not less strong—just no longer convinced that strength means carrying everything alone.
I’ve started to let the curtains remain open in between performances. .
& my biggest fans are still there, long after the final curtain call.
