The Quiet Betrayal

I used to believe that medication made me feel numb.

Recently, I witnessed a young mother becoming frustrated on the train as her toddler cried. Two women stepped in to help her regain her composure. In that moment, I felt… delayed. As my brain lagged what was happening in real time —that happens to me sometimes in chaotic environments—on subways, in crowds, or places with a lot of noise (If you know, you know.)

Having had a messed-up sleep pattern for the last two weeks, I was tired and yawning. You know those yawns that leave you teary-eyed? Well, despite that, my eyes were watering for a different reason. I couldn't tell if it was from fatigue or from witnessing how compassionate people can be when given the space, grace, and opportunity.

I couldn’t tell if I was emotional or just exhausted.

And that scared me a little.

Because for a second, I thought: maybe I really am desensitized. Often, numbness began to feel like I’m working against myself, compartmentalizing my feelings, and packing them away for later use. Maybe suppression was the real issue, not numbness—a quieter kind of betrayal. 

The kind that seeps in slowly, settling deep before you even realize it’s taken root. Listen, I’m no marriage counselor–though a child of divorcees. But, generally speaking, a relationship doesn’t end the moment the couple gets fed up. It’s a culmination of unhealed events coming to a head with reality. There’s only so much dirt you can fit under the rug. Before long, the clumpy carpet becomes so unstable that you trip up. And you have to decide if you’re going to keep stepping over it, or finally lift it up.

If I’m being honest, that starts to look like neglect.

The kind that doesn’t feel like neglect at first—especially when you’re someone who’s used to being empathetic, used to showing up for other people without question. But without any real boundaries, that kind of selflessness can turn on you.

The moment you start overlooking yourself, it quietly builds. And before you know it, the betrayal becomes a pattern.

Personally, I don’t think I’m numb. But I have made a habit of putting myself last, and I’ve realized that’s not something I can afford to do any longer. That moment on the train has been sticking with me because it forced a realization: the tin (wo)man actually has a damn heart.

Watching those two women rally around her—showing up without hesitation—made me realize I could do better at showing up for myself.

I had to say it plainly, to myself, out loud: patterns don’t break on their own.

At some point, you have to stop stepping over what you already know is there.

Your ass ain’t blind.

Until next time,

Jenn