I Was the Good Girl, the Caretaker, the Breadwinner — and Then Nobody

This is what it feels like when the doing stops and the being begins.

A friend’s retirement party cake

“What are your dreams?”

The workshop leader's question hung in the air.

Around me, hands shot up. Women eager to share their visions of art studios, travel adventures, and second careers.

I sat there, silent.

Not because I was shy.

Because I had nothing to say.

I recall having once dreamed of finding a career, getting married, and having a family. Those weren't dreams I created. They were what society had offered me, and I believed I wanted. But once accomplished, my well of dreams was dry.

When Had I Stopped Listening to My Own Longing?

Maybe I was just too busy living my dream to have new ones. Paying the mortgage, raising a family, and pursuing a career left me depleted.

I had spent decades ordering from the same menu - 'caregiver,' 'supporter,' 'the one who shows up for everyone else' - and suddenly finding myself at a restaurant with no menu at all.

The server asked, 'What would you like?' and I realized I didn't even remember what I was ever hungry for.

I had always been the good girl. The caretaker. The breadwinner. The one who kept things running. I had become so good at responding to what others needed that I'd long stopped asking myself what I wanted.

When those roles faded — the kids grown, the job retired, the parents gone — I didn't feel free.

I felt blank.

As I sat in that menu-less restaurant, at a quiet table, with the question:

What would you like?

I had no idea.

Why the Blankness Feels So Familiar

There's a name for this feeling, though I didn't know it until recently.

It's called “echoism,” a term coined by psychologist Craig Malkin, drawn from the myth of Echo, the nymph who could only repeat the voices of others.

Echoists are the opposite of narcissists. They're the ones who:

• downplay their needs,

• fear being a burden,

• avoid praise or attention,

• are deeply attuned to others, but disconnected from themselves.

Many of us, especially women, were raised to be echoists. We were rewarded for being adaptable, selfless, and easy. We were praised for how little we needed.

And when life finally slowed down, we weren't just unsure what we wanted — we weren't sure if we were allowed to want at all.

The Fear of Wanting

There's a quote I love from Maria Popova, a Bulgarian essayist of a publication I subscribe to called The Marginalian:

"The only thing more dangerous than wanting to save another person — a dangerous desire too often mistaken for love — is wanting to save yourself…"

To want, to truly want, is risky.

To want means confronting longing, deciding you’re worthy of the pursuit, being seen by others as someone who desires something more, and perhaps even more terrifying, considering the possibility that you might fail.

And here's some encouragement to let your wants go wild from entrepreneur Alex Hormozi:

"Six months after you die, people will stop thinking about you. In three generations, no one will remember your name."

That sounds bleak, right? After leaving your funeral, the people who cared about you will go on to their next activity. Their lives continue whether or not you're here.

People are simply focused on themselves.

If no one remembers us in the long run, maybe we can stop performing.

Maybe we can stop worrying about what others think of us.

Maybe we can stop waiting for permission.

A New Way to Begin

In improvisational comedy, there's a rule called "Yes, and…"

It means you accept what's been offered — no matter how absurd — and then you build on it. You don't reject the moment. You work with it.

And that is one way out of stuckness.

Not by knowing the script in advance.

But by noticing what's here — the faintest tug of curiosity, the quiet whisper of desire — and saying:

Yes, and…

Yes, I feel lost.

And maybe I could try that dance class.

Yes, I'm scared to take up space.

And I'm allowed to want more.

Yes, I don't know what I want.

And I'm willing to start listening.

Next week, I'll wrap up this series by sharing the kinds of questions that have helped me begin to unstick. We'll discuss rewriting the stories we've outgrown and practicing a new type of creativity, one based not on outcomes, but on aliveness.

Until then —

What could you say "yes, and" to today?

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