What I'm About

There has always been a quiet asymmetry in my life.

I carry more of the system than the system formally acknowledges.

I noticed it long before I had language for it. In families. In classrooms. In teams. In organizations. In moments of crisis when something had to hold - and I stepped in without being asked, because someone had to.

I wasn’t appointed.
I wasn’t always thanked.
Sometimes, I wasn’t even visible.

But the system leaned anyway.

I learned early how to sense what a was breaking before it broke. How to feel where tension was accumulating. How to translate between people who couldn’t hear each other anymore. How to absorb volatility so others could keep functioning.

This didn’t come from ambition. It came from necessity.

When a system is fragile, someone always becomes load-bearing.

Over time, that role follows you - not because you see it, but because systems recognize capacity even when they don’t name it. You become the person who:

• sees the whole when others see parts
• notices what’s missing before metrics do
• carries context others don’t have time to hold
• stabilizes quietly while decisions get made elsewhere

And the paradox is this:
The better you are at it, the less visible it becomes.

In healthy systems, this kind of capacity is recognized, shared and supported. In stressed systems, it becomes invisible labor.

I’ve lived inside that tension repeatedly.

At times, I tried to formalize it - thinking the right title, role, or structure would make the work legible. Sometimes it helped. Often it didn’t. Because what I was actually doing wasn’t a job; it was aa function the system hasn’t designed for yet.

So I learned something else instead:
How to hold clarity without authority.
How to speak precisely without spectacle.
How to stay grounded while carrying weight that was’t mine alone.

And eventually, I stopped trying to explain myself to systems that benefited from not seeing the full picture.

That’s when my voice changed.

It got quieter.
More exact.
Less interested in being impressive.
More interested in being true.

Because when you’ve spend your life carrying more than is acknowledged, you stop performing. You start naming.

You write not to be seen - but to make something visible.

And the people who recognize it aren’t the loudest ones. They’re the ones who pause when they read. The ones who feel relief instead of excitement. The ones who think, “Yes. That’s it. That’s what I’ve been inside.”

Those are the people I write for.

Not because they need encouragement.
But because they deserve language.

And because systems don’t change until the invisible becomes speakable.