I used to think
that I could save the world
until I realized
the world was never
mine to save.
I spent years
trying to fix things
I didn’t break.
Loving people
who didn’t know
how to love themselves.
Carrying burdens
that were never mine
to begin with.
I thought if I cared enough,
tried hard enough,
gave enough of myself,
somehow
I could make everything
turn out differently.
I thought love
could change people.
That understanding
could heal them.
That if I just stayed
a little longer,
gave one more chance,
forgave one more time,
eventually
something would give.
And something did.
Me.
I broke myself
trying to keep
everyone else together.
I became so consumed
with saving people
from their own destruction
that I never noticed
what it was doing to me.
I called it compassion.
I called it loyalty.
I called it love.
But somewhere along the way,
I started confusing
being needed
with being important.
And being useful
with being worthy.
I couldn’t stand
watching people hurt.
So I took their pain
and made it mine.
I couldn’t stand
watching people leave.
So I abandoned myself
trying to convince them
to stay.
And the fucked-up part?
I thought that made me
a good person.
Maybe it did.
Maybe my intentions
were always good.
But good intentions
don’t make you invincible.
And having a big heart
doesn’t mean
you owe everyone
a piece of it.
I’ve had to learn
that some people
don’t want to be saved.
Some people
have to lose everything
before they understand
what they had.
Some people
will keep reaching
for your hand
only to pull you under
with them.
And no matter
how much you love them,
you cannot live
their lives
for them.
That’s been
the hardest lesson.
Learning to care
without carrying.
To love
without losing myself.
To watch someone
make the wrong decision
and understand
that it isn’t always
my responsibility
to stop them.
I still struggle with it.
I still want to fix things.
Still want to reach
for people
who are falling apart.
Still feel guilty
when I choose
my own peace.
But I’m learning.
Slowly.
Painfully.
That I can be kind
without being consumed.
That I can offer love
without sacrificing
everything I have left.
That walking away
doesn’t always mean
I stopped caring.
Sometimes
it means I finally
started caring
about myself, too.
I used to think
I could save the world.
And maybe
that’s why I spent
so many years
feeling like a failure.
Because no matter
how much I gave,
someone was still hurting.
Something was still broken.
Someone still needed
more than I had.
But the world
was never mine to save.
And neither
was everyone in it.
Maybe my purpose
was never to rescue
every broken thing
I came across.
Maybe it was simply
to leave a little kindness
where I could,
love people
without trying
to become their salvation,
and finally understand
that I am allowed
to have a life
of my own.
Because somewhere
in all those years
of trying to save
everyone else,
there was a woman
quietly falling apart
who deserved
some of that love, too.
And this time,
I’m not leaving her
behind.
