“The Caregiver’s Curse”
They call it a gift—
this soft-spoken instinct,
this reaching before being asked,
this knowing what someone needs
before they do.
But they never talk
about the weight
of always being the warmest room
in a house that never heats for you.
How kindness becomes currency
in a world that keeps you broke.
How “strong” is just a prettier word
for “never allowed to fall apart.”
You give,
and they take—
your time, your peace,
the marrow from your own spine
to build their backbones.
You say, “It’s okay,”
when it’s not.
You say, “I’ve got you,”
when no one’s got you.
And one day you wake up
an echo of yourself,
so empty from pouring into others
you don’t even recognize
your own voice when it cries.
They call it love.
You call it survival.
But it’s starting to feel
like self-destruction in slow motion.
Because being the healer
means you never get to bleed.
And being the nurturer
means your needs come
last—if ever.
So you swallow every ache
until silence feels safer than asking.
But even wildflowers
stop blooming
when no one remembers
to water them.
