No More Playing Small: The Sovereign Shift
Today, I had one of those moments where life seems to put the lesson directly in front of you.
My mother needed to go to the hospital.
So I did what I do.
I showed up.
I got her there. I handled what needed to be handled. I became the person who makes the phone calls, asks the questions, figures out what comes next, and makes sure somebody is there when things get difficult.
And while I was handling someone else’s emergency, something important in my own life had to wait.
Something I had been trying to take care of for myself.
And I couldn’t get to it.
Because I was busy being somebody else’s emergency contact.
And that’s when something in me stopped.
Because I realized something I don’t think I’ve ever really allowed myself to sit with.
I don’t have an emergency contact.
When I fill out paperwork and they ask me who they should call in case of an emergency, I leave it blank.
Not because I don’t know anybody.
I know people.
I have people who know my number.
People who have known me for years.
People who will call me.
People who will ask questions.
People who want to know how I’m doing.
People who want to know how I’m showing up for somebody else.
But when the question is:
“Who shows up for you?”
That’s different.
And I don’t say that to make anybody feel guilty.
I’m not writing this to drag anybody.
I’m not even writing this because I want somebody to rescue me.
I’m writing it because I’m finally willing to tell myself the truth.
I have become an emergency contact for a lot of people while living my own life without one.
And I don’t want to become resentful about that.
That’s important to me.
Because resentment is not where I want to live.
I don’t want to start keeping score.
I don’t want to start thinking, “Well, I did this for you, so you owe me this.”
I don’t want my love to become a ledger.
But I also don’t want to use the absence of resentment as an excuse to ignore what is happening inside of me.
Because something is happening.
I’m tired.
And sometimes I don’t know whether I’m showing up because I genuinely want to, because I love someone, because I feel responsible, because I don’t want to feel guilty later, or because somewhere along the way I learned that if something needs to be handled…
I am the one who handles it.
That’s the part I’m sitting with.
Because maybe sovereignty isn’t about learning how to stop showing up.
Maybe sovereignty is learning how to become conscious about why I’m showing up.
There is a difference between:
“I choose to be here.”
and
“I have to be here because nobody else will do it.”
There is a difference between loving someone and abandoning yourself for them.
There is a difference between generosity and self-neglect.
And there is a difference between being dependable and becoming so dependable that everyone forgets you’re human, too.
I’ve been thinking about the people who have contacted me recently.
People who have known my number for years.
People reaching out to see how I’m doing.
Except sometimes the conversation isn’t really about how I’m doing.
It’s about how I’m showing up for someone else.
And I understand why people ask.
I do.
But something about it has been sitting strangely with me.
Because I find myself wondering:
Who is asking how I’m showing up for myself?
Who is asking whether I’m eating?
Whether I’m sleeping?
Whether I’m overwhelmed?
Whether I’m handling my own business?
Whether I need help?
Whether I have somewhere to put myemergency?
And then I have to ask myself an even harder question:
Have I taught people that I don’t need anything?
Because if I’ve spent years being the one who figures it out, maybe people aren’t intentionally overlooking me.
Maybe I’ve become so good at carrying everything that nobody realizes I’m carrying it.
And that’s uncomfortable to admit.
Because eventually you have to take responsibility for the role you’ve learned to play.
Not blame.
Responsibility.
I can acknowledge that other people haven’t shown up for me in the ways I needed without pretending I have no part in how I learned to function.
I can say:
“I needed more.”
And also ask:
“Why did I keep accepting less?”
I can love someone.
I can care for someone.
I can take them to the hospital.
I can make sure they’re okay.
And I can still acknowledge that I am exhausted.
Those things don’t cancel each other out.
I don’t have to make my exhaustion proof that I’m a good person.
I don’t have to suffer enough to justify my love.
And I don’t have to become resentful in order to admit that something isn’t working anymore.
Maybe the shift isn’t:
“I’m never doing this again.”
Maybe the shift is:
“I’m not disappearing from my own life while I do it.”
That’s different.
Because I don’t want to stop being someone who shows up.
I just don’t want to keep showing up for everyone else while leaving myself standing outside the door.
I want to become someone I can call, too.
I want to become someone I can depend on.
I want to stop treating my own needs like they are the ones that can always wait.
And maybe that’s what sovereignty actually looks like sometimes.
Not having all the answers.
Not suddenly having a village.
Not pretending you don’t need anybody.
But finally being honest enough to say:
“I need somebody, too.”
And if nobody is coming yet, then perhaps my first responsibility isn’t to become harder.
Maybe it’s to stop abandoning myself.
Maybe I start there.
Because I may still be someone’s emergency contact.
I may still show up.
I may still love deeply.
I may still help.
But I don’t want to do it anymore at the cost of myself.
I want to be an emergency contact in my own life, too.
And that’s the shift.