I Was Everyone's Unpaid 'Therapist Friend.' Until I Learned This Hard Truth About Friendship.

Yahoo

2 days ago

I don't remember a time when my mum didn't confide in me. I was her emotional support system, her confidant, her closest friend. She was a single parent and I became her sounding board. She shared her problems, fears and daily struggles — not the watered-down version most kids get, but the whole, raw, unfiltered story.
As I grew older, I slowly became aware that this wasn't how most mother-daughter relationships worked. But for us, it was just normal.
'Thank you for listening to me rabbit on,' she'd say, perched on my bed, tucking me in. 'You're so grown up for your age.' And I was. Had to be, really. When you're someone's entire world, you learn quickly how to soak up their distress like a sponge.
Without either of us realizing it, I absorbed a particular understanding of love. To me, caring for someone meant being the calm in their chaos, their safe harbor. Being needed felt like being valued. But that understanding of what it meant to love someone became the blueprint I carried into subsequent relationships.
When Love Meant Being Someone's Lifeline
Fast forward to my very early 20s. Somehow, I'd become the group therapist. Not officially, obviously. There was no vote where everyone decided I'd be the one fielding crisis calls at midnight. It just happened the way these things do when you've spent your childhood believing your worth depends on how well you can fix everyone else's mess.
'Many 'designated therapists' were once the emotionally attuned child in a chaotic, unpredictable or emotionally stifled home,' explains Elizabeth Bodett Dresser, licensed clinical professional counselor (LCPC) and founder of Still Oak Counseling. 'Maybe their parents didn't know how to regulate their own emotions, so the child took on the job of smoothing things over — being the peacemaker, the listener, the fixer.'
That perpetual caretaking? It becomes what Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy calls a 'manager' part. A protector who discovered how to read the room, anticipate needs and keep everyone stable. As Dresser puts it, 'These parts are often fueled by a belief that your worth comes from what you do for others, not simply who you are.'
Building on this foundation, Audrey Schoen, licensed marriage and family therapist, explains that some people learn early on that 'their survival was tied to their ability to solve problems and keep the peace.' We became hypervigilant to everyone's moods because our family's stability depended on it, pushing our own needs aside.
'This doesn't just turn off when they become adults,' Schoen said. 'It becomes their default mode in all relationships.'
The signs were everywhere. I knew intimate details about everyone's disasters. Their family drama, relationship trainwrecks, career meltdowns and everything in between. I knew their deepest fears and insecurities and could see a spiral coming a mile away.
But ask any of them what was happening in my life? Blank stares.
It wasn't malicious. They cared in their own way. But when you're the 'strong and capable' one, people forget you might be hurting, too. They'd throw out the occasional 'How are you?' Then, their eyes would glaze over, waiting for their turn to unload.
The Warning Signs I Ignored
The exhaustion crept up slowly. Three years of being everyone's unpaid therapist will do that. I'd spend hours crafting the perfect response to someone's emergency text, researching resources and offering solutions, only to have them ignore my advice completely and recreate the same chaos the following week.
Canceling my own plans to be there during their worst moments became routine, but when it came to their fun social events, I wasn't even on their radar. I was worn out. I felt like I only mattered when things were falling apart. And I'm not the only one who's felt this way.
This pattern is something Samantha Potthoff, marriage and family therapist and co-founder of Therapy Collective of California, regularly sees in people who have become the psychological anchor for everyone around them.
'Many of these people come to therapy not because they're struggling with one particular issue but because they feel emotionally worn out and unseen,' Potthoff said. And there's usually a belief lurking underneath: 'If I stop showing up for everyone, I'll lose my worth or the relationship itself.'
According to Potthoff, there are unmistakable signs indicating when supportive behavior has crossed into unhealthy territory: you feel guilty or anxious whenever you try to say no, people expect you to be available but never offer the same in return and your issues go unnoticed while everyone else's take center stage.
'These aren't just red flags,' she said. 'They're often symptoms of emotional burnout.'
Looking back, I kept telling myself that this was just temporary stress and things would balance out eventually. But the universe had other plans.
When Everything Fell Apart
Everything came to a head during one particularly stressful weekend. Three friends, three separate crises, all happening at the same inopportune time. Two servings of relationship drama and a business going under.
I spent two days ping-ponging between house visits and marathon phone calls, dispensing wisdom and tissues in equal measure.
By Sunday night, I was utterly done. Mentally drained, physically exhausted. I'd eaten nothing but junky stress snacks and absorbed enough secondhand trauma to power a helpline.
Then my phone buzzed. I retrieved it from the door pocket of my poor old car. Another drama-filled text, but this time from a fourth friend.
I stared at that message for a long time. I searched desperately for something helpful to say, but I was coming up blank. I felt like I had nothing to give. So, I did something revolutionary: I turned off my phone.
The guilt hit immediately. What if they really needed me? What if something terrible happened? What if they stopped being my friend because I wasn't available? The same fears that had kept me tethered to my mother's inner needs as a child — the terror that boundaries meant abandonment.
This guilt, notes Dresser, is textbook for emotional fixers.
'When your nervous system has been wired to prioritize others' needs as a form of connection or survival, setting a boundary can feel like you're being cruel or selfish. But that guilt often isn't a sign you're doing something wrong. It's a sign you're doing something new.'
The Truth About One-Sided Friendships
Gradually, I began to pull back and create some distance. As I did, the truth became painfully obvious.
The care I'd been giving for so long? Not reciprocated. When I stopped being available for every meltdown, they didn't notice I was struggling with my own. When I moved to a new town not long after, those friendships just... faded.
No one fought to maintain the connection when I wasn't doing all the emotional heavy lifting.
Healthy relationships should feel mutual, as Dresser points out.
'There's room for both people to be messy, vulnerable and human. But when you find yourself only playing the role of the calm, wise advice-giver, especially when you're privately unraveling, it might be a sign the dynamic is out of balance.'
Looking back, I can see how these unhealthy patterns had played out in my own life. The warning signs of an unhealthy dynamic had been there all along, but I missed them completely.
I felt dread when certain names popped up on my phone because I knew what was coming — another venting marathon where I'd give everything and get nothing back. My own hardships had become invisible, even to me. Conversations left me weary rather than connected. And if I tried to open up? The discussion quietly pivoted back to them.
As Schoen puts it, 'When your support becomes an expectation, you've crossed into unhealthy territory.' In toxic dynamics, it becomes an obligation. You feel it in your body as resentment and exhaustion. She adds, 'Another clear sign is when friends start treating your emotional labor like it's owed to them rather than appreciated.'
It took time to unlearn these patterns. Time to understand that real friendship requires mutuality, not one person endlessly giving while the other takes.
What I didn't realize was how this cycle of behavior had rewired my sense of self-worth.
'This dynamic creates a warped sense of self-worth that sounds like: 'I'm worthy because of what I can offer others' and 'I'm fine, I can take care of myself,'' Schoen said. The helper starts believing their needs matter less than everyone else's, which is a trauma response, not a personality trait.
'When they struggle, they often think there's something wrong with them because they're supposed to be the strong one, able to handle it all,' she continues. 'The mental health impact can be significant. Chronic stress, resentment and a deep sense of loneliness because nobody really knows the real you.'
Those habits still surface sometimes. Even now, I catch myself automatically saying, 'I'm fine' when someone asks how I'm doing. Or jump straight into problem-solving mode when a friend shares something. The difference is that I now notice it happening.
Learning To Choose Myself
Guilt around these personal limits often comes from being praised for this behavior. As Schoen observes, 'They were the 'good kid,' the responsible one, the one everyone could count on. Being a 'good friend' becomes their identity. Setting boundaries feels like betraying the very identity that kept them safe and valued.'
Growing up as a confidant gave me empathy beyond my years and showed me how to hold space for pain without immediately trying to fix it. I developed an intuitive understanding of human nature that serves me well.
What changed everything was figuring out how to use these skills intentionally, not reflexively. It's a distinction Potthoff highlights, drawing on research that shows how essential this shift really is.
'People who misunderstand empathy as limitless emotional availability, especially those in caregiving roles, are more vulnerable to burnout,' Potthoff said. 'When empathy is not paired with healthy boundaries and assertive communication, the very quality that helps us connect becomes the source of our fatigue.'
Those years of carrying everyone else's stresses taught me lessons I wish I'd learned earlier. The breakthrough came when I stopped seeing my limits as selfish and started seeing them as survival.
My well-intentioned help was creating dependency instead of independence. Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is step back and let someone handle their disaster when you're running on empty. After all, friendship happens between equals, not between a fixer and the broken.
'Setting a healthy boundary means having empathy and compassion for your friend's pain without taking on their problem or becoming responsible for the solution,' Schoen said. 'You can care about someone without carrying their emotional weight.'
These days, I still care deeply about the people in my life. I offer guidance and a listening ear when it's needed. However, I do so by choice, not compulsion and work to maintain my own boundaries. And when those old patterns try to resurface (because they do), I'm better equipped to recognize them and make different choices.
The most important lesson? 'You are allowed to rest,' Potthoff said. 'You are allowed to have needs. And you are worthy of the same care you so freely offer to others, not because you've earned it, but because you're human.'
Refusing to be someone's constant counselor can be the kindest choice. Not because you don't care, but because you respect their ability to grow on their own.
And that benefits everyone.
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