I Was the Family Therapist—Until I Finally Broke

I remember the moment my body gave out.

It was a Tuesday morning, just after 8:00 AM. I had just finished packing my son’s lunchbox—peanut butter sandwich with apple slices and two Digestives, just the way he liked. The kettle whistled. My mother was in the other room calling my name, asking me to help find her white scarf again. My sister had just texted, “Can you talk? Kwesi is ghosting again.” And my chest tightened—not with worry, but with something heavier. Something unfamiliar.

I leaned on the kitchen sink and felt the air disappear from my lungs. I was not panicking. I was not crying. I was just… hollow. Completely emptied out.

Then I slid down to the tiled floor and sat there—my back against the cabinet, knees pulled up, eyes wide open. That was the moment I knew I had broken.

The Family’s “Therapist”

For as long as I can remember, I was the one everyone turned to. First it was my younger siblings, then my parents, and eventually even extended cousins and friends of friends.

“You have such a calm voice, Ama,” they would say. “You always know what to say.”

And I did. I knew how to hold people when they cried, how to phrase hard truths gently, how to absorb emotional storms without flinching. I became the go-to mediator, peacekeeper, the unofficial therapist—without the degree, without the pay, and most dangerously, without boundaries.

My mother used to call me “the strong one.” I wore that title like armor. Even after I had my son and started working remotely as a freelance writer, I was still expected to be on-call for everyone’s emotional emergencies.

I said yes. Always.

Even when I was tired, even when my body whispered warnings. Even when my own needs cried for attention.

Neglecting Myself to Be Everything for Everyone

There were signs. Quiet ones.

I stopped enjoying music. I forgot the last time I read something for pleasure. And I would lie in bed at night, awake but exhausted, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me.

But then someone would call.

“Can we talk? I’m not in a good place,” my brother would say.

Or, “Ama, you know your father and I do not speak anymore—please call him about the hospital bill,” my mother would request.

So I would put my own ache aside and listen. I would coach, comfort, advise. I would make them feel better—and then lie on my pillow and feel emptier.

The Breakdown I Never Saw Coming

That Tuesday morning, I did not faint or cry. I just stopped functioning.

My neighbor, Aunty Dora, found me an hour later when she came to borrow sugar. She walked in, saw me on the floor, and dropped everything.

“Ei Ama! What is going on?”

I tried to speak, but the words did not come.

I was taken to the University of Cape Coast Hospital. The diagnosis was stress-induced exhaustion and severe anxiety. One of the doctors gently asked if I had considered therapy.

Therapy? Me?

I was the therapist.

But I nodded. Because something inside me had finally crumbled. And I knew—this was not just burnout. This was years of unspoken pain, swallowed grief, and the unbearable pressure of being “the strong one.”

Facing the Truth in Therapy

I sat in front of Dr. Mensah, a soft-spoken therapist with kind eyes and a notebook she barely touched.

“I do not know who I am if I am not helping someone,” I confessed in our third session.

She smiled gently. “Then we need to find out.”

It was the most terrifying and liberating sentence I had heard.

Week after week, I began to unpack the belief that my worth came from usefulness. That I had no right to rest unless I had fixed everyone’s problems.

I learned something else, too—I was angry.

Not just tired. Not just overwhelmed. Angry. Angry that no one ever asked how I was. Angry that being the helper meant I never got helped.

And then came the most painful truth: I had taught people to treat me this way.

Not deliberately. Not consciously. But I had.

I had said yes when I should have said no. I had stepped in every time someone stumbled. I had never once asked to be cared for. I had created my own invisibility.

Learning to Set Boundaries, Even With My Mother

The hardest conversation was with my mother.

After one of my therapy sessions, I called her. My hands shook as I held the phone.

“Mama,” I said, “I love you. But I need to take care of myself now. I will not always be able to help you immediately when you call. I need space to rest. Please understand.”

There was a pause.

“Ama,” she said softly, “are you okay?”

I began to cry. For the first time, she truly saw me—not the strong one, not the fixer, but her daughter who was tired and healing.

“I am learning to be,” I said.

The New Me—Less Perfect, More Free

It has been over a year since that breakdown.

I still support my family, but now I check in with myself first. I no longer feel guilty for turning off my phone. I no longer explain myself when I say no. I protect my peace like it is sacred—because it is.

And I have learned something beautiful: boundaries do not push love away. They make room for healthier, more honest love.

My son now sees a mother who rests, who laughs, who no longer snaps from hidden stress. My friends know that I may not always be available—but when I am, I am fully present.

I have become my own therapist first.

If You Are the “Strong One,” Please Read This

If you are the one everyone leans on… please lean back. Ask yourself: who holds me? Who checks in on me? And if the answer is no one, then it is time to change that.

Being reliable should not cost you your soul.

Being kind does not mean self-erasure.

You are allowed to say, “I am not okay.” You are allowed to fall apart. And you are allowed to be human.

Healing begins where pretending ends.