Susannah
Mage
- Jul 2, 2018
- 536
No one asks me to do it.
Still, I am the one who gets up first.
I clear the cups before anyone has said thank you for the coffee. I take notes while others speak. I keep track of time, deadlines, shifts in mood.
I read the room immediately—who is quiet, who is irritated, who is withdrawing. I try to fix the atmosphere. It feels like my responsibility.
It happens automatically. I only notice it afterward, when the room is empty and it occurs to me that no one actually asked me to keep track of everything.
It is not a choice. It is closer to a reflex—like catching something that falls before thought can intervene.
I have done this for as long as I can remember.
I once thought it meant I was conscientious, that everyone operated this way. Later, I was told I was strong.
Now I am no longer sure what that means.
Over the years, I have spent time comforting, understanding, listening without judgment. People did not come because they trusted me.
They came because I had capacity.
I am beginning to see a pattern. It is not strength that draws people in grief toward me.
It is the absence of resistance.
I did not ask the questions that would interrupt the flow. I did not ask to be spared. I did not make the situation larger than it already was.
In hindsight, I see what makes me useful in other people's crises.
Not strength, but capacity.
Not empathy, but overview.
I have never said yes.
I have simply not said no.
What has changed is not that I have stopped. I still get up first. I still clear the cups. I still read messages late at night and understand more than what is written.
The difference is that I notice how early it begins.
Something in me is already organizing, sorting, anticipating consequences—before I have decided, before I have replied, before I have finished thinking.
I see how my body moves ahead of me. How my attention searches for what is missing, what is unsaid, what no one else picks up on.
It happens faster than will. Faster than judgment about whether this is actually my responsibility.
That is when it becomes clear that this is not only something I do for others.
It is also something I do for myself.
Responsibility creates structure.
Overview creates calm.
When I take the space, the world becomes less unpredictable.
When I carry it, I do not have to stand exposed.
Perhaps that is why I rarely stop. Not because I always want to help, but because I know what it feels like when no one holds things together.
Because the silence afterward can be worse than the weight while it is happening.
There is not always a moment before.
Often, I am already in motion when I become aware of it.
Responsibility is not something I step into. It is something I discover I have already taken on—when it is already too late to step away.
Still, I am the one who gets up first.
I clear the cups before anyone has said thank you for the coffee. I take notes while others speak. I keep track of time, deadlines, shifts in mood.
I read the room immediately—who is quiet, who is irritated, who is withdrawing. I try to fix the atmosphere. It feels like my responsibility.
It happens automatically. I only notice it afterward, when the room is empty and it occurs to me that no one actually asked me to keep track of everything.
It is not a choice. It is closer to a reflex—like catching something that falls before thought can intervene.
I have done this for as long as I can remember.
I once thought it meant I was conscientious, that everyone operated this way. Later, I was told I was strong.
Now I am no longer sure what that means.
Over the years, I have spent time comforting, understanding, listening without judgment. People did not come because they trusted me.
They came because I had capacity.
I am beginning to see a pattern. It is not strength that draws people in grief toward me.
It is the absence of resistance.
I did not ask the questions that would interrupt the flow. I did not ask to be spared. I did not make the situation larger than it already was.
In hindsight, I see what makes me useful in other people's crises.
Not strength, but capacity.
Not empathy, but overview.
I have never said yes.
I have simply not said no.
What has changed is not that I have stopped. I still get up first. I still clear the cups. I still read messages late at night and understand more than what is written.
The difference is that I notice how early it begins.
Something in me is already organizing, sorting, anticipating consequences—before I have decided, before I have replied, before I have finished thinking.
I see how my body moves ahead of me. How my attention searches for what is missing, what is unsaid, what no one else picks up on.
It happens faster than will. Faster than judgment about whether this is actually my responsibility.
That is when it becomes clear that this is not only something I do for others.
It is also something I do for myself.
Responsibility creates structure.
Overview creates calm.
When I take the space, the world becomes less unpredictable.
When I carry it, I do not have to stand exposed.
Perhaps that is why I rarely stop. Not because I always want to help, but because I know what it feels like when no one holds things together.
Because the silence afterward can be worse than the weight while it is happening.
There is not always a moment before.
Often, I am already in motion when I become aware of it.
Responsibility is not something I step into. It is something I discover I have already taken on—when it is already too late to step away.
