To Whom It May Concern (and oh, it concerns many).

To Whom It May Concern (and oh, it concerns many),

I hereby tender my resignation.

Effective immediately, I am stepping down from my long-held, unpaid, and thoroughly exhausting position as The Strong One. I know this may come as a shock to some — after all, I’ve held this position for years, and I’ve worn it like a badge of honor (read: a straitjacket tailored in silence). But today, with the full authority vested in me by no one but my own fraying patience, I quit.

I am done being the vault where everyone stores their grief, shame, and apologies they never plan to say out loud. I’m done being the sponge for chaos, the fixer of everything except my own breaking heart. You know the one — the person who holds their breath so others can breathe easier? That was me. Not anymore.

I resign from the title of “the one who always has it together” — because surprise! I don’t. I never did. I’ve just gotten really good at duct-taping my meltdowns into private performances held in the shower, the car, or at 2 a.m. in the glow of the refrigerator light. No more of that. Let the fridge mourn in peace.

I’m walking away from the role of emotional pack mule, carrying unspoken burdens up mountains no one else even sees. If you're waiting for me to be the first to reach out, make peace, send the check-in text, or absorb the discomfort in the room — consider this my out-of-office reply.

Permanently.

I resign from being the person who says "yes" when I’m screaming "no" into the inside of my own skull. I’ve said yes to plans I didn’t want, favors that drained me, conversations that cost more than they gave — all in the name of being “easy to love.” But let’s be honest: love should never come with a punch card of self-betrayal.

For those curious, no — there is no succession plan. I am not training a replacement. May this toxic role die with me. Let someone else answer the late-night crisis calls or translate silence into sympathy. I’m tired of being fluent in pain I don’t get to process.

And while we’re at it, I’m also handing in my badge for The Quiet One. The one who swallows truth for the sake of comfort. Who jokes to deflect. Who crafts emails with “just checking in” and “if it’s not too much trouble” so no one mistakes clarity for confrontation. From here on out, I’m speaking plainly. I’m choosing to be misunderstood if it means being honest.

I don’t want a cake, a send-off speech, or a plaque for my years of emotional martyrdom. Just let me leave with my dignity intact and a bottle of wine I don’t have to share.

To the people who only liked me when I was agreeable — keep the version of me you made up in your head. I won’t be performing her anymore. She’s tired. She misses herself.

To the little girl who learned early that being strong meant being silent, being agreeable meant being safe, and being selfless was the highest currency of love — I’m so sorry. I’ve been forcing us to wear those lies like armor. But today, we unzip that costume. Today, we rest. We breathe. We become soft without apology.

I know there will be whispers. “She’s changed.” “She’s selfish now.” “She’s not who she used to be.” And you’re right — I’m not. I’m becoming who I should have been before the world taught me how to disappear politely.

If you’ve known me only as your lifeboat, your therapist, your doormat, or your mirror — you might not recognize me from here on out. That’s okay. You were never supposed to build your home inside me anyway.

You know what’s wild? Somewhere along the way, I started thinking being needed was the same thing as being loved. That if I could just keep saying yes — to favors, to overworking, to swallowing my truth — I’d earn a seat at the table. Not because I wanted to, but because I thought that’s just what good people do.

But I’m not a bottomless well. I’m not an emotional vending machine where you press A7 and get reassurance, or B3 for unconditional patience. I’ve spent years handing out comfort like candy, hoping someone would notice I was starving too.

And don’t get me started on the praise. Oh, the gold stars for “handling it so well.” The admiration for being “so strong.” People love you when your suffering is neat and silent. They love you more when it doesn’t inconvenience them. But I’ve learned something gut-wrenching: strength, in their eyes, meant not asking for anything in return.

Even when I was drowning, I smiled. I played the part. I answered, “I’m fine” so often it became muscle memory. Meanwhile, my own needs gathered dust in the attic of my life — ignored, boxed up, labeled “not urgent.”

There were so many moments I should’ve said “I can’t” or “I need help,” but I didn’t. Because I thought I wasn’t allowed. Because I feared being seen as too much — or worse, not enough. There’s a special kind of loneliness in always being the sturdy one, the steady one, the safe one.

But here’s the thing: I’m allowed to fall apart, too. I’m allowed to ask for a hug without offering a life lesson in return. I’m allowed to be quiet without people assuming something’s wrong, or loud without being labeled dramatic.

I want to reclaim messiness. I want to cry without justifying it. I want to rest without guilt gnawing at the edges of my peace. I want to exist without performing resilience every damn day.

And I’m not sorry about it. Not anymore.

In closing, please consider this my irrevocable, unapologetic, long-overdue resignation from the roles of:

• The Strong One
• The Quiet One
• The One Who Never Says No

Effective immediately and forever.

Warm regards (and a not-so-warm middle finger to the expectation that built this cage),

Rukka Nova