A few days ago, someone I once considered a friend—who hadn’t checked in with me since I moved countries—replied to my check in: “hey, how have you been?”. They shared they weren’t doing well.
So I called immediately.
We spoke for two hours. I held space for them as they processed their breakup.
Only after all that did they ask, “What about you? How’s the new city you’ve been living in for the last two months?”
I started to share. Maybe five minutes in, they cut me off:
“I need to eat. We’ve been talking for two hours, Care.”
I’m ashamed to write these words.
Even more ashamed to admit…
I wasn’t surprised.
I’ve had people sit me down in Berlin and say, with a straight face,
“I reserve the right to cancel last minute,”
right after I shared how painful and disrespectful it feels when they do.
In moments like these, I feel it—that deep ache in my gut that signals that burnout is on the horizon.
The kind of burnout that doesn’t come from work.
The kind that comes from one-sided care.
From being a space-holder for people who don’t know how to hold you back.
From love that doesn’t see you.
