I am everyone’s armor.
The one who steps in when things get heavy.
The one who knows what to say when someone is breaking.
The one who carries calm in her hands and steadiness in her voice.
I absorb the impact so others don’t have to.
I stand in front of the mess.
The grief.
The panic.
The chaos.
I take the hit. I always have.
People lean into me because I feel safe. Because I don’t fall apart when they do. Because I know how to hold space without asking for anything back. I patch wounds. I soften landings. I remind people they are not alone.
But no one asks who catches me.
No one notices that armor gets heavy.
That even steel bends eventually.
That protection is not the same as being protected.
I am the one people run to.
I am never the one someone runs for.
When I get quiet, it is mistaken for strength.
When I pull back, it is ignored.
When I finally need help, the room somehow empties.
I have learned how to bleed quietly.
How to cry without sound.
How to fold myself into smaller versions so I don’t inconvenience anyone.
I know how to survive.
That has never been the problem.
The problem is that survival is not the same as being saved.
I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want to be chosen. I want someone to see the cracks and step closer instead of assuming I can handle it. I want someone to stand in front of me for once and say, I’ve got you. Rest.
Instead, I keep tightening the straps.
Keep smiling.
Keep showing up.
Because armor does not get to ask who will protect it.
And maybe the cruelest part is this.
Everyone feels safe because of me.
And I have never felt safe with anyone.