Dear you,
I know I’m posting this late.
No one’s checking the time, probably. No one’s refreshing the page or waiting with bated breath. But I still feel it—the lateness. Like a tap on the shoulder I can’t ignore. It’s strange, right? How even when there’s no deadline, no one chasing, you can still feel like you’re letting someone down. Maybe even yourself.
The thing is—I’m never late. Not for the office. Not for meetings. Not for routine. I’ve built this rhythm over the years that makes me show up like clockwork. It's not even about being disciplined. It’s more like… survival. Like if I break my rhythm, I might fall apart a little.
Mornings are predictable. That’s how I like them. I know where everything is. My shirt is folded just right. My keys are where they’re supposed to be. My pen is always, always in the same place.
And I know that might sound obsessive. But it’s not about control. Not really. It’s about peace. It’s the only kind I know. I don’t do well when things are out of place. Even something small—like a chair not pushed in, or someone moving a file and not putting it back—makes me feel like I’ve lost something I can’t name.
No one really sees it, this part of me. I fix things after hours. Quietly. I straighten stacks of paper when no one’s looking. I clean my own cabin if the janitor didn’t do a good job, even though it’s not my job. I don’t want to complain. I just want it to feel right again. Balanced. Clear.
And no one thanks me for it, but that’s okay. I’m not doing it for that. I don’t want attention. I’d probably freeze if someone pointed it out. But sometimes, I wish someone noticed anyway. Like a small nod. Like, “Hey, I saw what you did. I know you care.” That would be enough.
But I think what’s been weighing on me more lately isn’t the cleaning or the fixing. It’s the people.
The way I keep saying yes.
People ask me for help all the time. It starts off normal. Someone can’t figure out the printer. Someone needs help with their computer. Someone’s confused about a form. And I help, because I can. Because it’s not a big deal. Because I’ve always been that person.
And they’re not mean. Let me say that clearly. The people around me are, for the most part, good. Kind, even. But kindness can still ask too much if you’re too quiet to set boundaries.
Over time, the asking becomes assuming. The favors become responsibilities. And when I finally say I can’t—because I’m tired, because I’m busy, because I just don’t want to—they look at me like I’ve changed. Like I’m not who they thought I was.
But I am the same. I’m just… full. Overloaded. Like a to-do list with no white space left.
It’s hard when you’re the one who never complains. People start to think you never need rest. That you’re some kind of quiet machine, always ready to help. Always calm. Always okay.
I’m not a machine.
I get tired too. I feel used. I feel invisible. And then I feel guilty for even thinking that, because they don’t mean harm. But intent doesn’t always match impact.
Sometimes I wish I could be a little more disorganized. Not wildly, just enough to feel free. To leave a pen out of place and not panic. To let someone else fix the thing that’s broken. To walk past a mess and not feel like I’m failing the universe.
But it’s hard. Because being neat, being helpful, being on time—it’s who I’ve been for so long. What if I let go and there’s nothing left underneath?
Still, I think I need to try. I think I need to learn how to rest. How to say no. How to let things be imperfect and not fall apart.
So this post isn’t perfect. It’s late. It’s rambling. It’s messy in places.
But it’s true. And maybe, for today, being true is better than being perfect.
Love,
Me
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