The Friend With All The Answer

I’m the one they call when their world falls apart— The steady voice, the open heart. I patch their cracks, I lighten the mood, I turn pain into jokes so the room feels good. I’m the late-night listener, the shoulder on call, The one who holds everyone else through it all. But when my chest gets heavy and I need a place to land, I look around and find nothing but my own two hands. People say I’m strong, like it’s some kind of shield, As if strength means I don’t need space to heal. They love my wisdom, my humor, my care— But they never notice the weight I bear. I give out comfort like it costs me nothing, But sometimes I wish someone would ask me something. Not “Can you help?” or “Do you have advice?” Just “How are you?”— said gently, twice. Because being the one everyone leans on Feels lonely in a way that’s hard to explain. I lift their storms, I carry their rain, Yet no one sees when I’m standing in mine. One day, I hope someone looks past the jokes— Past the strength, past the smile I cloak— And sees the quiet truth I hide so well: The therapist friend needs saving, too sometimes.