The battle I fought in secret began quietly, like a muffled drumbeat under layers of everything I thought I was juggling just fine. No flashing alarms, no dramatic unraveling—just the steady hum of a truth I couldn’t admit, even to myself: I’d been pouring everything into everyone else and completely skipping over me. Somewhere between cousins’ weddings, book deadlines, deep-fried oyster festivals, and that doomed situationship I had no business entertaining, I was losing track of who I really was.

You might know the type of battle I’m talking about. It’s not the get-into-the-ring-and-throw-hands kind. It’s the “smile through it, you’re fine, seriously, you’re fine... aren’t you?” kind. On the outside, I was doing what I do best: showing up for people. Lending a listening ear. Saying “yes” to everything because my mama didn’t raise a flake. But inside? I felt stretched thinner than my grandma’s Sunday morning pancakes. I was tired—tired of the pretending, the pleasing, the performance.

That’s when the reckoning came. And like so many things in my life, it happened in the kitchen.

The Recipe for Realization

Cooking’s always been my therapy. A few sweet-smelling hours blending Gullah Geechee spices, chopping okra the way my grandmother taught me, crooning along to Aretha Franklin—this is where I find my center. But one night, as I was making a pot of crab rice big enough to feed half the block, my spoon stalled over the simmering broth. I realized this wasn’t cooking for joy. This was cooking because I couldn’t say “no” when someone asked, “Can you whip something up for the church dinner?”

My joy wasn’t just on the back burner—it had left the kitchen altogether. And that’s when I heard her voice in my head, gentle but firm, the way it always was. “Ebony,” my grandma always used to say, “don’t stir nobody else’s pot if yours is boiling over.”

Honestly, she could’ve mic-dropped right then and there.

The Subtle Art of (Kindly) Saying No

So, that’s where I began: learning to clear space where “yes” once lived. It didn’t happen all at once—I wasn’t about to ghost my whole network of friends and family—but I started practicing tiny acts of refusal:

  • “I’d love to help, but I need to sit this one out.” Because you can’t say “yes” to everything without silently saying “no” to yourself.
  • “Wish I could join, but I’ve got a full plate today!” Whether that plate is literally full of shrimp and grits or metaphorically bursting with stress, it’s real. Own it.
  • “Have you asked so-and-so? I think they might be able to jump in.” A gentle pass-off that reminds the world you’re not, in fact, their personal crisis hotline.

What It Means to Ask for Grace

One of the hardest things about fighting a silent battle is that other people can’t—and won’t—see it unless you show them. For me, that took some honest conversations with the people I trusted most. My parents, for example, had always seen me as their “steady ship” child—the one who would weather any storm, no matter how much water I’d already taken on.

It was a humbling moment, sitting them down and saying, “I can’t do it all. And I need you to love me through this shift.” But you know what? Instead of disappointment, I was met with love. My mama even said, “Baby, I wondered when you were going to let yourself off the hook.”

Who knew asking for grace could feel like an exhale after holding your breath for years?

A New Kind of Love Story

Freeing myself from the cycle of quiet burnout allowed me to reconnect—first and foremost—with myself. I started discovering what I liked again, outside of pleasing everyone else. I took late-night beach walks without an agenda. I sat on the porch, no phone in hand, just listening to rain on the marsh. And for the first time in years, I started each morning with a journal entry that wasn’t about deadlines or daily tasks—just musings, fragments, and fleeting thoughts.

I even gave myself the liberty of falling in love with little things: the velvet smoothness of a ripe peach, the way a gospel choir harmonizes just before the swell, the undeniable freedom of dancing barefoot to Erykah Badu in my living room. It made me wonder how long I’d gone without letting this kind of love into my life, the kind that isn’t tied to someone else’s approval or demands.

This new chapter also allowed deeper connections with others. Saying “no” in the right moments didn’t create distance—it brought clearer, healthier boundaries that made room for authentic relationships, not convenience-based ones.

How You Fight Your Secret Battles

Everyone’s battles look different, but here’s what mine taught me:

  1. Check Your Pot First. Nana didn’t lie—if your own pot is boiling over, you’re in no state to lend your spoon to someone else’s soup. Pause. Stir your own broth.

  2. Give Yourself Permission First. Before telling anyone else, give yourself permission to say no, rest, or step back. Start with small affirmations like, “I deserve to breathe freely.”

  3. Allow the Little Joys. Small, mindful acts—like savoring that fancy latte instead of guzzling it or walking in the park without headphones—are rebellion against the hustle. Joy doesn’t have to wait for permission.

  4. Ask for Help. This part is not weakness—it’s wisdom. Lean on your community, professionally or personally. Fill-in-the-blank for your own version of “Ebony, you’ve got to let somebody help carry the load.”

Closing the Curtains (and Opening the Windows)

If you’d told me years ago I’d be writing this, I might’ve laughed you smooth out of my kitchen. Admitting my secret battle felt like admitting some level of failure, even shame. But the truth is, there’s nothing shameful about coming home to yourself, even when the journey requires detours and pauses.

Your battle might not look exactly like mine, but when it comes to showing up for yourself, I hope you hear me as clearly as I hear my grandma: Whatever’s brewing in your pot, darling, it’s worth tending to.

You’ll be amazed by what you can create when you finally let yourself take a breath.