I learned too late that selflessness can become a slow kind of violence.
I used to think love meant shrinking myself and my needs. Disappearing. I made space for everyone else and swallowed my own needs so theirs could breathe. I wore exhaustion like a badge of honour and called it kindness. I said yes when my body begged for rest. I stayed quiet when something hurt and convinced myself that being needed was the same as being valued.
But there’s nothing noble or beautiful about disappearing or about giving until you have nothing left to give.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I’m a human too. I treated myself like an afterthought—collateral damage in my own life. I poured from an empty cup and then wondered why I felt hollow.
I became fluent in other people’s emotions and illiterate to my own. I could sense when someone was anxious before they said a word or feel tension in a room before anyone acknowledged it. I memorized the rhythms of others’ moods, triggers, and discomforts. I learned how to anticipate, soothe, fix, and bend myself around them. But in doing so, I lost the language of my own feelings.
I didn’t notice when I was tired, sad, or frustrated until it had built into something sharp and heavy. My emotions became a foreign language I had forgotten and every time I tried to address them, I stumbled.
I think what brought me to that point was years of quiet training in self-erasure. From a young age, I was praised for being attentive, for caretaking, and for being the easiest. I learned to smooth over conflicts between my parents and siblings, keeping my needs small so I wouldn’t rock the boat.
When I spoke up, asked for help, or prioritized myself, the response wasn’t always anger; it was subtler than that. It came in the form of exclusion, cold shoulders, a shift in tone, or a quiet withdrawal of warmth. In my eyes, social rejection was worse than blunt anger. Ultimately, I learned what behaviour earned connection and what behaviour cost it.
Slowly, I began to equate my social value with my usefulness. My worth became tied to my ability to anticipate and manage the feelings of those around me. I became hyper-aware of moods, tensions, and unspoken expectations in every group I was in, almost as if my acceptance depended on it.
I learned to blend in, shrink myself, and to mirror those around me—I made myself small so everyone else could take up space. And in doing so, I forgot how to notice my own feelings, my own needs, my own limits.
My social fluency became a double-edged sword. It allowed me to connect and belong, but it trained me to abandon myself. The truth is, I was afraid.
Afraid that choosing myself would make me unlovable and that setting boundaries would feel like rejection, like I was failing others or proving I didn’t care. I was afraid that rest meant weakness, and taking time for myself was selfish or lazy. I couldn’t help but fear that if I stopped carrying everyone else, no one would carry me, and I would be left alone.
So, I kept going.
Even when I was tired and my body begged for a pause. Even when my mind felt heavy and my heart hollow. I smiled through exhaustion. I said yes through resentment. I gave my energy, attention, and my love as if they were infinite sources, despite my gut telling me it wasn’t.
When I started university, this pattern intensified. I tried balancing classes, deadlines, clinical placements, assignments, and exams while trying to be the friend, the roommate, the student nurse who always showed up and did everything perfectly. The pressure to perform, to be present, and carry everyone else’s weight became almost normal. I didn’t even notice how depleted I was until it all caught up with me.
No one warns you that martyrdom doesn’t make you kind or noble. It doesn’t make anyone notice or appreciate you the way you hoped. It makes you resentful. It makes your compassion brittle, turns generosity into obligation, and love into survival. Kindness becomes currency. You give just to keep the world from noticing that you’ve disappeared.
My lowest point came one morning during clinical placement in November.
I was completely burned out—physically, emotionally, and mentally—sitting in the break room, barely holding myself together. I couldn’t explain to myself why I felt the way I did. I couldn’t name it. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I felt hollow and unmoored, like I had been giving away pieces of myself for so long that the center of me had vanished. All I knew was the weight of everything I’d carried silently and the absence of any recognition of my own needs.
I pictured my emotions like a helium balloon; swollen and distended, ready to pop and startle everyone around me.
Being “selfish” saved me.
Not in a dramatic way, but in small, scattered moments. Saying no when I wanted to say yes. Choosing sleep over proving something. Letting people be disappointed. Choosing myself in quiet ways and realizing that my needs matter just as much as anyone else’s.
That my love doesn’t require self-erasure. That I can be generous without being depleted.
Protecting my peace isn’t cruelty. Rest isn’t laziness. Boundaries aren’t walls—they’re doors with locks. Some locks I open with care, letting the right people in. But some stay closed, and that’s okay. I’m allowed to take up space without apology.
I’m allowed to feel my feelings, to honour my energy, to say yes to what nourishes me. The most radical thing I ever did was decide that I matter; not more than anyone else, but just as much.
When I stop abandoning myself, I show up better. When I care for my wounds and stop bleeding on people who didn’t cut me. When I honour my limits, I become softer, steadier, more real. I’m learning that love doesn’t require self-erasure. I don’t have to break myself to be good.
Choosing myself isn’t the end of compassion. It’s the starting line of a race I can run again and again—learning, healing, and showing up.
Tags
Mental health, Postscript, Student life
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anon
this was very beautifully written. thank you for sharing this, Daphne!