It’s difficult being the empathetic friend.
The one who reaches out when nobody does.The one who over-texts, overthinks, and over-explains. The one who claps the hardest when the world is silent.
Being that person often means loving loudly and getting quiet responses. And honestly, that contrast is exhausting.
You naturally give warmth and make an effort, but what you receive alternates between silence, distance, and half-attention.
Over time, that imbalance teaches you to pull back. Not because you want to, but because constantly giving without being met hurts. A lot.
When this cycle continues, you realise that you have never been truly cared for. You gradually allow the world’s ugliness to ruin your beautiful soul.
You transition. First, you’re angry. Then you’re indifferent. Nonchalant. A shell of your own spark. Next, you slowly shrink yourself— barely alive and just surviving. You stop caring and lose interest in everything else.
Instead of wallowing in self-pity and anger, you decide to do something for yourself. You understand that the world won’t pause for you to take a break.
In this self-preservation, you promise yourself that you won’t settle for a sham. Not until you find your own person. Someone who is easily infected by your laughter, who gets your jests and jokes, and who gives you just enough as you pour into them.
And though you’re certain that one day someone will truly understand your worth, you still bask in the quiet consolation that no one will ever come close to the standard.
Maybe the only person you really need is yourself. 🫶🏾✨
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