It is a disorienting question.

So much of my identity has quietly attached itself to being the one who shows up, the one who fixes, and the one who helps. If I am not patching something up for someone, offering advice, carrying extra weight, or smoothing out the chaos, what is left of me? When I strip away all the roles I play in other people’s lives, I am not totally sure I know who is underneath.

If I had a whole week where no one asked me for anything, where there were no problems to solve and no emotional fires to put out, what would I do?

When I close my eyes and try to picture that week, my mind goes strangely blank. There are no clear images and no obvious plans. There is just an empty space that makes me uneasy. Why is it so hard to imagine time that belongs only to me?

I wonder if this has become a need I have created for myself or if I was moulded into this over time. It feels less like a natural preference and more like a survival strategy that solidified into a personality.

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have absorbed the idea that I only have a secure place in people’s lives if I am doing something for them. I began to believe that being loved and being needed are the same thing. I fear that without utility, I might simply be overlooked, pushed to the side, or forgotten.

Consequently, I start to question my connections. How do I tell if I have genuine relationships with others? If people suddenly stopped needing me or stopped coming to me for advice, would they still choose me? Or do I secretly assume they would drift toward someone else who is more useful and leave me behind?

When I imagine people not needing me, my mind reflexively jumps to the story that they will move on. It feels automatic, like a script that has been rehearsed too many times. If I am not useful, why would they stay?

This line of thinking forces me to ask uncomfortable questions. Do I actually know any relationships in my life where I feel wanted rather than just helpful? Do I have connections where my presence matters even when I am not solving anything?

I also have to look at my own behavior inside these relationships.

  • Do I know how to let myself be seen when I am not in “helper mode”?
  • Do I allow myself to show my own needs without rushing to cover them up with care for someone else?
  • Do I let other people support me, or do I shut that down because it feels unfamiliar and vulnerable?

If I never let anyone see who I am outside the role of the fixer, then of course I will feel like my only value is what I provide. I keep reinforcing the same story. I show up as the capable one, the strong one, and the one who can handle a lot. The result is that I feel lonely inside that identity. I leave very little space for anyone to know the softer, confused, or tired parts of me because those parts do not have answers.

Under all of this lies a painful but important realization.

In a twisted, roundabout way, I was taught that I had to be needed to be worthy. That message landed inside me so deeply that it started to feel like truth instead of conditioning. I can see how it was reinforced. Maybe I was praised when I was helpful. Maybe I was noticed most when I was useful. Maybe love was tangled together with obligation and sacrifice. Maybe I learned that the surest way to avoid abandonment was to become indispensable.

But understanding where this came from does not mean I have to keep living by it.

Being needed and being worthy are not the same thing. If everyone in my life suddenly figured out their own problems and never needed my support again, I would still be here. I would still have thoughts, feelings, preferences, creativity, and presence. My value would not vanish just because the demand for my efforts did.

It is hard to let that sink in because it means I have to loosen my grip on a role that has kept me feeling important and safe for a long time. There is fear in imagining myself outside that identity.

Who am I if I am not the one others lean on?