Tonight’s writing is part reflection, part elegy, and it says something many healers, empaths, and compassionate people experience but rarely express out loud: the exhaustion that comes from always being the giver, never the receiver.

The healer was never meant to mend their own wounds, not the ones hidden in the heart, nor the quiet bruises of the soul.
The world I was born into taught me to love, to help, to listen, to hold, to protect — even if it cost my life. I believed that giving more would mean receiving more.

So I stood between darkness and harm, shielding others with the little I had left.

I never let anyone see me unhealed, for my power lived in being the one who soothed, not the one who bled.
I gave the way my parents and grandparents taught me to give; with faith, with grace, with a hope that one day, perhaps, that same love would return to me. As the last 15 years have passed and the tiredness set in, I began to wonder…… could I, too, be healed?

But who asks if the strong one is breaking?
Who notices when the healer begins to fade?
There are those this very date who would tell you: he saved me, he gave me food when he had none, he took me to safety when I was being hurt, he put his breath into my son’s chest and he is alive…… They are my witnesses, not to glorify me, but to testify to what love should look like. Yet no one thinks to pour back into the one who poured endlessly.

I never asked for it.
I never would. But here, in my journal, I am allowed to be human,aren’t I??
Tonight, on March 28, 2026, I admit what few healers ever do: I am tired. I am empty.
We, the healers, draw our strength from saving others, leaving no space to save ourselves. Inside, we long — silently — to be seen, to be heard, to be understood as deeply as we once understood others.
So, in my narrative, I let the healer die, not from the absence of love, but from the quiet hunger of and for reciprocation that never came.