The Exhausted Caregiver

A woman rests her head on a train table, appearing exhausted as the world rushes by outside the window.

From a young age, I learned to be the caretaker. It wasn’t something I consciously chose; it was a role that settled into my bones before I even had words for it. I would look at the world—at the people I loved—and whisper silently to myself: I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of them. I won’t let harm come to you.

It was instinctual, automatic. If someone was struggling, I could sense it before they spoke. If something was broken, I would try to fix it before anyone even noticed. And if love was absent, I would pour it forth from my own being, offering it in the ways I longed to receive it, hoping that maybe—just maybe—someone would see the mirror and reflect it back to me.

I became The Exhausted Caregiver long before I ever became a mother. It wasn’t just about children; it was about everyone. Friends, lovers, family. I gave of myself endlessly, believing that if I just loved enough, if I just gave enough, I could heal the world around me. But what I didn’t realize was that in my attempt to nourish others, I was depleting the very essence of my own life force.

The Cost of Over-Giving

I carried the belief that love meant sacrifice. That to be a good person, a good partner, a good healer, I had to offer my energy freely, without limit. I thought that if I held others’ pain, they wouldn’t have to feel it as deeply. That if I took on their struggles, I could ease their burdens. But what I failed to see was that love given from depletion is not love at all—it is a quiet form of self-abandonment.

Over time, I started to feel the weight of it. My body bore the evidence—exhaustion, tension, a persistent sense of heaviness that no amount of rest could cure. My womb, the center of my creative and spiritual power, was not a vessel of nourishment for myself but an open well from which everyone else could drink. And no matter how much I gave, it was never enough. Because when you offer your personal energy as a lifeline to others, they don’t learn to swim—they learn to reach for you instead.

What I didn’t fully grasp for so long was the hidden expectation I carried within my giving. I gave in the hope that someone, somewhere, would love me the way I loved them. I longed for the kind of deep, unconditional care I poured into others to be returned in kind—no questions asked, no conditions attached. But the truth is, I was giving from a place of lack, not abundance. I wasn’t offering love freely; I was offering it in exchange for something I desperately needed but never fully received. I gave because I hoped, in my heart of hearts, that it would be reciprocated—that my energy would be honored, my needs recognized, and my love reflected back to me. But I found that giving without boundaries only left me empty, my cup running dry with no one to fill it.

Reclaiming My Womb, Reclaiming Myself

This month, I confronted this pattern head-on. I dove deep into the wisdom of my womb, seeking to understand why I had been leaking my energy, why I had allowed myself to be drained in the name of love. And what I discovered was a truth both profound and liberating: Love is infinite, but my personal energy is not.

For so long, I had confused the two. Love flows freely, endlessly—it is the thread that binds us all. But my personal energy? That is mine. That is sacred. That is meant to fuel my own body, my own life, my own becoming.

Through embodiment practices, I began calling my energy back. I placed my hands over my womb, pressed my power into my core, and affirmed: I am not responsible for carrying the weight of others. My energy belongs to me.

And as I did this, something shifted. The Exhausted Caregiver inside me softened, but she did not disappear—she evolved. She transformed from a woman who bled herself dry for the sake of others into a woman who radiates her power outward, standing sovereign in her own energy.

The High Priestess Rises

I have come to see that within me, there is another archetype—the High Priestess. She does not overextend, nor does she deplete herself in the name of love. She holds wisdom, discernment, and clarity. She understands that true power is not in giving everything away, but in standing fully in her own energy, sharing from a place of abundance rather than depletion.

This journey is not about closing myself off. It is about boundaries. It is about recognizing that my womb is a temple, and not everyone is meant to enter. It is about understanding that my role is not to fix or save, but to inspire and empower—by embodying what it means to be whole within myself.

The Path Forward

I know now that my energy is a gift, and like all gifts, it must be given with intention. I will no longer pour from an empty cup. I will no longer deplete myself in the hope that someone else will fill me in return. Instead, I will stand in my fullness, knowing that my love is strongest when it flows from a place of sovereignty, not sacrifice.

So to those who, like me, have spent their lives giving beyond their means, I offer this: Your energy belongs to you. You do not have to drain yourself to prove your love. The most radical act of love you can offer—to yourself and to the world—is to honor your own sacred boundaries.

I am no longer The Exhausted Caregiver. I am the High Priestess of my own life. And from this place of power, I rise.