v.33 Your Worth Isn’t Measured in What You Carry for Other People
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
At a certain point in adulthood, we know better. And still, we don’t always do better.
We make choices that are, at best, questionable—and at worst, full-on disastrous. We invite chaos into our lives with open arms, even as a small voice inside whispers, This isn’t a good idea.
So the question is: why? Why, as grown ass adults, do we do this?
Why do we step into situations that scream MAYBE NOT, then act shocked when everything around us starts burning?
Sometimes it’s about comfort. Familiar messes feel safe, even when they’re destructive. There’s something oddly seductive about what we know—even if what we know is chaos. We tell ourselves we’re being spontaneous or generous or open-hearted, but really: we’re just avoiding clarity.
And clarity? It’s clean. It’s liberating. But it also demands discomfort. It asks us to sit with what’s hard right now in exchange for peace later. That’s a trade we don’t always have the patience—or courage—to make.
Take relationships, for example. Plenty of us have latched onto someone who wasn’t emotionally available. Maybe we were both mid-heartbreak, mid-transition, or mid-mess. And instead of stepping back to tend to ourselves, we dove straight into each other’s chaos like it was a cozy blanket. But that blanket? It’s full of holes and eventually, the cold creeps in. (No? Just me in most of my 20’s and early 30’s then? Cool, ok, cool.)
But not all chaos comes wrapped in romance. Sometimes, the mess we invite in isn’t a person—it’s a pattern. It’s the role we keep choosing for ourselves. And that kind of chaos? It’s quieter. But just as exhausting.
It’s the way we keep showing up for everyone else while quietly abandoning ourselves. It’s the habit of fixing things that aren’t ours to fix. It’s the story we’ve written about who we have to be—reliable, helpful, put-together, shiny—even when we’re falling apart.
And this one? It’s deeply personal.
I’ve been that person. I am that person. A caretaker. A fixer. A connector. A damn ray of sass-filled sunshine. My default setting has always been: I’m stronger. Let me carry that for you, even when I’m dragging my own shit behind me.
For a long time, I wore this like a badge of honor. I prided myself on being the one who had the right words, who knew what people needed before they asked. But over the past couple of years—through a whole lot of unraveling—I’ve had to face something uncomfortable:
I didn’t just want to help. I needed to. I thought being needed meant being loved. I confused worthiness with doing the most. I thought having all the answers was love—but really, it was just avoidance in a (much) cuter outfit.
I told myself I was being generous. Noble, even. But what I was really doing was hiding. If I stayed busy fixing everyone else’s mess, I didn’t have to face my own. If I carried their weight, I didn’t have to sit in the discomfort of mine.
And listen—that truth hit harder than I wanted it to.
Because sometimes the sunshine we offer others is a distraction from the shadows we’re running from.
There’s nothing wrong with being someone who brings light. But trying to be everyone’s lighthouse while your own foundation is cracking? That’s not sustainable.
These days, I move slower. I sit with myself more. I speak less. When I offer help, I do it because I can be of service to others rather then servicing my own ego. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t come from martyrdom. Helping isn’t healing if I’m hurting to do it.
I still care. I still connect. I still love big.
But now I ask myself:
Can I give this without resentment?
Am I acting out of love—or out of obligation?
Have I been asked to help—or am I inserting myself into someone else’s story?
Because healing isn’t always about doing more.
Sometimes, it’s about doing less—with way more intention.
Because life will already offer us enough that’s unexpected. We don’t need to be out here building bonfires of our own, tossing in matches just to see how fast it burns.
This week’s microjoy: Bright manicures and pedicures—bright pink, punchy orange, or loud reds—are my daily dose of joy, no matter the season. Always a bit…much, and absolutely intentional. At this point, getting a neutral manicure feels like betraying my own soul—I know because I’ve tried it. And then I spend the next week living in regret, fully aware that I knew better. Honestly, even my manicurist gives me side-eye when I stray and try something different—it’s just not …me. Microjoys, baby. And mine show up in hot pink. Always.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
