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Sunday 06 September 2026 22:25:41 GMT
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Portable handheld cooling fan 🙌 bringing this EVERYWHERE this summer!#portablefan #legoland #travelhacks #summeressentials #summermusthaves
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My love language is acts of service… but my trauma response is doing everything myself so I don’t put anyone else out. Here’s the thing though- I can remember every single time someone has done something for me. Every one. Because that’s how much it means to me. The friend who dropped off soup when I was sick. The person who filled my gas tank without being asked. The one who just… noticed I was drowning and grabbed a bucket. I hold onto those moments like treasures. When my twins were newborns, I was running on fumes in a way I didn’t even have words for. My sister-in-law came over and offered to take both babies for a whole night so I could finally sleep. A full night… the thing I wanted more than anything in the world in that moment. And I said no. I refused the exact thing my body was begging for. Because letting her take them meant admitting I couldn’t do it all — and somewhere deep down, accepting help felt more dangerous than exhaustion. I chose to keep drowning rather than let someone hand me a raft. I still think about that night. Not with shame anymore, but with tenderness for the woman I was — so used to not putting others out that she couldn’t even accept a gift when it was standing right in front of her, arms open. And that’s the quiet contradiction I’m learning to sit with: I give through service constantly, I ache to be served in return, and yet I make it nearly impossible for anyone to do it. I do everything myself so I don’t burden anyone else but then I’m starving for the very thing I won’t let in. Letting someone help me isn’t weakness. It’s trust. And I’m slowly learning to put the dish down and say, “actually… could you?” If you remember every kindness too, I see you. 🤍 Who else needed this today?
My love language is acts of service… but my trauma response is doing everything myself so I don’t put anyone else out. Here’s the thing though- I can remember every single time someone has done something for me. Every one. Because that’s how much it means to me. The friend who dropped off soup when I was sick. The person who filled my gas tank without being asked. The one who just… noticed I was drowning and grabbed a bucket. I hold onto those moments like treasures. When my twins were newborns, I was running on fumes in a way I didn’t even have words for. My sister-in-law came over and offered to take both babies for a whole night so I could finally sleep. A full night… the thing I wanted more than anything in the world in that moment. And I said no. I refused the exact thing my body was begging for. Because letting her take them meant admitting I couldn’t do it all — and somewhere deep down, accepting help felt more dangerous than exhaustion. I chose to keep drowning rather than let someone hand me a raft. I still think about that night. Not with shame anymore, but with tenderness for the woman I was — so used to not putting others out that she couldn’t even accept a gift when it was standing right in front of her, arms open. And that’s the quiet contradiction I’m learning to sit with: I give through service constantly, I ache to be served in return, and yet I make it nearly impossible for anyone to do it. I do everything myself so I don’t burden anyone else but then I’m starving for the very thing I won’t let in. Letting someone help me isn’t weakness. It’s trust. And I’m slowly learning to put the dish down and say, “actually… could you?” If you remember every kindness too, I see you. 🤍 Who else needed this today?
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