When the Helper Needs to Be Held

Reflections on Healing After a Life of Pushing Through

June 17, 2025 | Written by Belle Cruz

I’ve spent most of my life moving from one crisis to the next.

As a nurse, you get used to it—adjusting to the pressure, the unpredictability, the constant rhythm of putting others first. You learn to show up with steady hands even when your heart is breaking. You learn to make space for someone else’s emergency, even if your own life feels like it’s unraveling quietly in the background.

And somewhere along the way, that rhythm doesn’t just stay in the hospital—it follows you home.

That same automatic response kicked in when, in the span of just a few weeks, I lost my grandmother… discovered a major safety concern in my life… and had to leave the place I called home. I didn’t have the luxury of processing. I had to act. Move. Plan. Pivot. Survive.

But here’s what I wasn’t prepared for:

Sometimes even blessings come like emergencies.

Even upgrades feel overwhelming when you’re wired to brace for impact.

I was suddenly thrust into a home I didn’t expect to be mine. A place of beauty and safety and peace—and still, my body didn’t know how to rest in it. Because I had spent years surviving. Years being the helper. The strong one. The stable one.

And now that the storm has passed, I find myself standing in the quiet, asking:

Who holds the helper when she’s tired? Who helps the nurse when her heart is heavy?

There’s a part of me that feels guilty for needing a break. For not bouncing back instantly. For feeling grief and exhaustion even in the midst of answered prayers. But the truth is, this is the pattern so many of us carry—especially those of us raised in survival, raised by immigrants, raised to believe rest is a reward instead of a right.

But I’m learning something new in this chapter. I’m learning that healing doesn’t happen in the rush—it happens in the pause.

That receiving is a holy posture.

That I’m not weak for needing time. I’m human. And humans—especially the ones who’ve held so much—deserve to be held too.

So today, I give myself permission to feel.

To grieve. To rest. To not have it all together. To let my nervous system come down from high alert. To be the patient for once, not the provider. To dwell—not just move through.

And if you’re reading this and your story feels like mine—if you’ve lived your life as the strong one, the caregiver, the first responder to everyone else’s pain—I want you to know:

You are allowed to slow down.

You are allowed to be held.

You are allowed to take up space in your own story.

Because healing isn’t a luxury.

It’s your inheritance.

And this season?

This isn’t you falling apart.

This is you coming together,

becoming whole in yourself.