I Finally Know Why

For years, a question lived in the back of my mind. It was quiet but heavy, shaping how I showed up in the world. Why me? Why do I never get the same empathy I see poured into others?

This morning at 8am, the answer showed up not once, but twice. Two posts back-to-back that finally closed the chapter on a question I didn’t even realize was still bleeding me. And in that moment, I felt a shift. A release.

The truth is, the signs are always around us. Answers don’t come how we imagine, but when they’re for us, there is an inner pause causing us to slow down and take in the information. This was mine.

Here’s the raw question:

 Why is it that when I’m drowning, the people closest to me never reach out a hand the way I’ve seen them do for others?

I watched my mother, grandmother, and aunts pour compassion into people who created their chaos, without judgment, shame, or lectures. Just help. But me? I was treated like the problem. Ashamed. Dismissed. Degraded.

I’ll never forget the day I asked my mother for gas money. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t lazy. I was a single mom, raising my daughter alone, paying bills, and keeping everything together. My check stretched to cover food and rent, but gas? I was short. When I asked for help, her response wasn’t compassion. It was, “I’ll have to ask my husband.”

That stung. But the real dagger came years later.

She regifted me a journal I had once given her, except she forgot to tear out a page. A page where she wrote about that very day. In her own handwriting, I read: “We were going to give her $40, but decided on $20. She needs a reality check.”

Do you know what it’s like to realize your own mother thought $20 worth of struggle was the lesson you needed? To realize she watched you hold life together on scraps and still chose to teach you pain instead of giving you grace? That wasn’t just about gas money. That was about value. That was about worth. That was about me never being seen as deserving of softness.

And it’s been that way everywhere. Family. Work. Friendships. I’ve been the strong one, the capable one, the one who “always figures it out.” And because of that, my pain has been minimized, my struggles ignored. I’ve been expected to patch everyone else’s wounds while mine went untreated.

This morning, I finally heard the truth in someone else’s words:

“If you are the person who always figures it out, the one people don’t have to worry about, you will never receive the same level of empathy as those who can’t handle anything.”

That was it. That was the missing piece.

And suddenly, I saw my whole life for what it was.

• I am the one who always figured it out.
• I am the one who rebuilt from ashes, even when a flood took everything I owned.
• I am the one who survived pain in silence, while others were coddled for far less.

And yes, I always landed on my feet, but don’t get it twisted. It was still hard. It was hell.

Now I understand: their lack of empathy had nothing to do with my worth. It had everything to do with their comfort in watching me bleed but never break.

So today, I’m done. The medical bag is closed. No more automatic fixing, no more one-sided sacrifice. If reciprocity isn’t on the table, I’m not showing up. Period.

I’m not bitter. I’m not broken. I’m free.

Thank you to the voices that unknowingly dropped this gem today. You’ve given me more than you know.

I finally have my answer. And now, I finally have peace.