People often text me when they feel broken. They pour out their sadness, fears, and exhaustion. I listen with patience and offer comfort until their storm passes. My heart aches for them, and it aches for me too, although I tell myself my pain can wait. Love, to me, means making sure everyone else is safe and supported, even when I am quietly falling apart. Afterwards, when the messages stop, I cry alone. I grieve the part of me that longs to be seen the way I see others. I wish to be held with the same care I give so freely.

I have become the friend who knows what to say. I offer the right words at the right time. I understand emotions deeply and often wish I did not. People tell me I am strong and wise. When I am the one in pain, no one seems to know what to do. My silence is mistaken for resilience. My exhaustion is hidden behind a smile that no one questions.

Over time, I have learned to quiet my emotions because I see that my depth makes people uncomfortable. People step back from what they do not understand. I remind myself that helping gives me purpose and that their comfort is worth my silence. The truth is that I am tired. I need the support I give so freely to others. I have learned to carry my struggles quietly because I fear no one would know how to hold them if I shared. I have become skilled at appearing fine while I break inside.

People see me as a safety net. They know they can lean on me without feeling the need to offer anything in return. As long as I show up, they assume I am fine. I am not always fine. I break quietly within the walls of my home, unseen in the moments I wish most to be noticed. I feel the weight of emotional burnout and the loneliness of being invisible when I need support the most. I wonder how I became someone who gives so much and accepts so little.

I recognise the patterns. I understand what self-abandonment looks like. I can describe every stage of burnout. I see the signs in myself as clearly as I see them in others. But knowing is not the same as changing. I have grown used to settling for crumbs of care and convince myself that it is enough. Even in classes about mental health and resilience, the lessons feel too personal. I want to heal but do not know where to begin. I want to be held but do not know how to ask.

I have learned that healing begins with honesty. I try to name my needs. I try to admit when I am struggling. But acceptance without a sense of safety feels empty. Healing requires more than understanding. It needs a space where growth feels possible, where I am seen for who I am and not just for what I give. Every day I try to take a small step towards that space. Some days that step is simply allowing myself to feel. Some days it is telling someone that I am not OK. Some days it is breathing through the hard moments and believing I will be all right. For now, that is enough.

I still long for someone to look at me with the same kindness I give to others. I am learning, slowly, to offer that kindness to myself.

Sophie Turner, a psychology graduate from the University of Leeds, writes about mental health, emotional resilience, and self-compassion. She is passionate about raising awareness of invisible struggles and promoting kindness towards oneself.