Mindful Minion

There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from doing too much. It comes from feeling too much, thinking too much, reacting too much, over and over again, until one day, something in you just quietly stops. Not in a dramatic way, not all at once. Just a slow realization that you cannot keep living like this.

Looking back, I think I’ve always been this way. Even when I was younger, I was that girl. The one who didn’t filter herself, the one who said what she felt, the one who gave people access too easily. I didn’t know how to hold anything back.

Growing up, I moved around a lot. Different environments, different people, different circles. So I got used to turning strangers into friends quickly, easily, without questioning too much. When I went to school, it was the same. When I entered the corporate world, it only intensified. I was constantly surrounded by people, constantly interacting, constantly building connections, and I approached all of it the same way I always had: open, unfiltered, giving.

I didn’t think I needed to be selective. I thought being real was enough. And because of that, I got slapped in the face many times. Not just once, not just twice, but enough times that it should have been obvious.

The pattern was always there. I would open up too quickly, say too much, feel too deeply in spaces that were not built to hold me. And then I would spiral. At the time, I didn’t call it that. I thought I was just being emotional, just being honest, just being myself. But now I see it clearly. Spiraling is self-abandonment. It’s what happens when you step out of your own center and hand it over to something outside of you. And every time I did that, I left myself behind.

The hardest part is that I didn’t just learn this lesson once. I learned it, forgot it, and learned it again, over and over, with different people, in different situations, across different phases of my life. Years passed like that.

Along the way, I started noticing something else, something a little darker. There is a dynamic that happens when you are the more emotional one. The more you unravel, the more someone else gets to appear calm. The more you express, the more they get to stay controlled. And whether they are aware of it or not, that position feels good.

I found myself falling into that role many times. I would be the one saying more, revealing more, opening more, while the other person stayed measured, composed, just out of reach. Suddenly, I was the exposed one, the emotional one, the one who looked like too much. And they got to feel stable, they got to feel like they had it together, they got to walk away without carrying anything.

Meanwhile, I was the one losing sleep, replaying conversations, trying to process everything out loud, trying to make sense of things that were never going to give me clarity. That version of me had no boundaries, and people will take as much as you are willing to give, sometimes without even realizing it.

Over time, I also started to see what people are capable of. Not just strangers, everyone. People can withdraw from you without warning. They can shift their energy. They can give you something, just to remind you they can take it away. Care, attention, time, effort, these things can be used as leverage. And once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

I’ve seen people act like they had something over me, like they held a position I should be afraid to lose. But a lot of those positions only existed because I gave them that power in the first place. You make a frog a prince, and he starts believing he was always royalty. He forgets who placed the crown there, he forgets what you were to him, and eventually, he treats you like you were never part of the story.

I saw that pattern everywhere, with friends, with coworkers, with people I trusted. You give, you elevate, you invest, and suddenly, they think they are above you. That was a hard lesson, but it was mine to learn.

Years and years of going through the same cycle eventually change you. Not all at once, but gradually. Now, in a different phase of my life, no longer in that environment, no longer surrounded by constant noise and constant people, I see things more clearly. I don’t move the same way anymore.

I strive to be more selective, with my energy, with my words, with who I let into my inner world. Most people do not have full access to me, not because I have nothing to share, but because I understand now that access is a privilege. If I feel like that space is not respected, I take the key back quietly, without explanation, without guilt.

Sometimes, I choose to keep things simple, to say I’m fine, to keep conversations light. Not because I am pretending, but because not every space deserves depth. I still remember the girl who could say everything without hesitation, who believed she was safe to exist like that everywhere. I do miss her. But she didn’t know how to protect herself.

So now, when she shows up again, when she wants to say everything, to feel everything, to give everything, I pause. And sometimes, I gently put her back. Not to silence her, but to protect her. Because not every place is meant for her.

There is also something else I have come to accept, something that is not easy, but it is honest. There is a deep need in all of us to be witnessed, to have someone see everything we feel, everything we think, everything we are, so that our existence feels real. But maybe that is not in my fate. Maybe I will never have that kind of witness in my life, and that is okay. Maybe I will never feel fully emotionally fulfilled in that way, and that is okay too. That is still a life.

I might feel lonely sometimes. I might feel that absence more than I want to. But even that, I am learning to accept. If I feel lonely sometimes, then so be it. If that feeling stays longer than I want it to, then so be it. If I am not enough for myself on certain days, then so be it.

I do not need to fix everything. I do not need to turn myself into something perfect just to feel okay. Even if I am a little broken, that is still a beautiful life.

I have stopped trying to control how everything unfolds. Stopped building expectations that exhaust me. Stopped chasing outcomes that only exist in my head. Now, I take things one day at a time, sometimes one moment at a time, and that is enough.

I still feel. I still care. But I no longer abandon myself to prove it. And that is something I had to learn, slowly, over years, not all at once, but enough times that it finally stayed.