No One Is Coming to Save Me. And That’s Okay

We grow up with stories of rescue.

Fairytales. Cartoons. Romantic comedies. There’s always someone who swoops in just in time. A prince, a parent, a friend, a miracle. Someone who sees your pain and says, “I’ve got you. Let me take it from here.”

I think I internalised that without even realising it. That someone or something would save me. That eventually, the chaos would stop. The shame would lift. The noise would quiet. That I’d wake up and somehow everything would be okay, because something outside of me would make it so.

But here’s the hard truth that’s been crashing down on me lately:

No one is coming to save me.

And wow… I’m exhausted.

Not just tired—exhausted. Bone-deep. Soul-deep. From carrying too much for too long. From pretending. From performing. From constantly trying to hold it all together while feeling like I’m falling apart on the inside.

And if I’m completely honest, I don’t even like who I became somewhere along the way. I lost parts of myself I used to be proud of. I made choices that fractured my sense of who I thought I was.

Reading Dr Edith Eger’s words felt like someone threw open a window in a suffocating room:

“You are the only one you’re going to have for a lifetime.”

And suddenly I realised—I’ve been abandoning myself. Hoping someone else would pick up the pieces. Waiting to be rescued, when really… I needed to return to me.

There’s another quote that landed just as hard:

“The only person coming to save you is the version of yourself that’s exhausted by your own situation.”

And I feel that in my bones.

There’s no fairy godmother. No knight. No magic wand. Just me. A woman standing in the ruins of what was, realising that healing isn’t about being saved—it’s about slowly becoming someone I can live with. Maybe even love again.

This isn’t a triumphant declaration. It’s a quiet reckoning. A whispered promise. A decision, made on shaky legs, that I will show up for myself even if I don’t feel worthy yet.

It looks like this:
Drinking the water.
Turning off the noise.
Choosing truth over performance.
Letting go of people-pleasing and perfection.
Sitting with the pain instead of numbing it.

It looks like whispering to the broken version of me, “I’ve got you. I won’t leave you behind again.”

I’m not writing this because I’ve figured it all out. I haven’t.
But for the first time, I’m starting to believe that I don’t have to be the villain in my own story. That maybe the rescue I was waiting for… was always meant to come from me.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.


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