I’ve spent years wishing people would stop needing me for everything. I just never considered how much it would hurt when they finally didn’t.
I’ve been counting down the days until my term as treasurer is over. December 31, 2026. That’s the date. That’s when I get to walk away from the responsibilities, the drama, the constant demands, and the never-ending feeling that if I don’t do something, it won’t get done.
I’ve been looking forward to it. Hell, I’ve practically been celebrating it.
So why does it hurt so damn much?
Monday night we had a board meeting. A group of parents showed up who had apparently been talking amongst themselves about stepping into leadership positions.
And before anyone gets the wrong idea, I’m genuinely happy about that.
They’re good people. People I know. People I respect. People I believe will do a good job leading the organization.
The organization needs people who are willing to step up, and I’m glad they did. But sitting there listening to everything unfold, I felt something I wasn’t expecting.
I felt replaced.
Not because I thought nobody could do my job. I’ve never believed that.
But because it all seemed so easy.
Years of pouring myself into this organization. Years of running concessions, managing finances, ordering supplies, filling volunteer gaps, answering questions, and making sure things got done. Years of sacrificing evenings, weekends, family time, and sometimes my own sanity.
And suddenly, there were people ready to take over.
People who had already discussed how to divide up the responsibilities I’d been carrying. Committees. Shared responsibilities. More people helping.
Which is wonderful. Seriously.
But where the hell was all of that when I was drowning?
Where were those people when I was working a register because nobody volunteered? When I was trying to balance the finances, keep the concession stand stocked, answer questions, and somehow still be a wife, mother, employee, and student?
I don’t begrudge the next board having help. I just wish I’d had some of it.
And as I sat there listening, I started wondering whether everything I’d done had even mattered.
I know that’s not entirely fair. I know the organization has to move forward. I know people have to replace people. I know the next board shouldn’t have to struggle just because the previous one did.
My brain understands all of that. My heart, apparently, didn’t get the memo.
Because here’s the part I’m struggling to admit.
I knew I was replaceable as a treasurer. I just didn’t expect to feel replaceable as a person.
And that realization has absolutely wrecked me.
When Being Needed Becomes Your Identity
I’ve been involved in this community in some capacity since we moved here in 2020.
First, I was the treasurer of an organization for two years. Then I was the treasurer of PTA group for one of my kiddos schools for two years. Then I became involved with the marching band, where I’ve spent the last four school years.
For six years, I’ve been somebody people came to. Somebody who knew what was going on. Somebody who had answers. Somebody who had responsibilities.
And no, I don’t mean that in an egotistical way. I wasn’t walking around thinking I was God’s gift to nonprofit organizations.
I genuinely enjoyed being involved. I enjoyed knowing people. I enjoyed helping. I enjoyed being part of something bigger than myself. I enjoyed having a place in my community.
And somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, that became part of my identity.
I wasn’t just a mom with kids in the school district. I was the treasurer. I was the person people came to when they needed something. I was the person who knew how things worked.
And now?
Now I’m just me. Mom. Wife. Transportation Director of Hoskins Holdings. Grocery shopper. Calendar keeper.
The person who knows which kid needs to be where, what time we have to leave, and whether we have anything in the house to make for dinner.
And before anyone tells me that being a wife and mother is enough, I KNOW.
I know those roles matter. I know my children need me. I know my husband loves me. I know my worth isn’t supposed to be determined by how many people need something from me. I know all of that.
But knowing something and actually feeling it are two entirely different things.
Welcome to another episode of Danece’s Heart and Brain Are Fighting Again.
My heart knows my worth isn’t tied to a title. My brain keeps asking what I’m worth without one.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. At this point, I don’t even know which one is winning.
I Wanted to Leave. I Didn’t Want to Feel Disposable.
Here’s where things get even more confusing.
I don’t actually want to keep doing what I’ve been doing. I don’t want another year of concession stands, volunteer signups, financial reports, and board drama.
I’m exhausted.
I’m tired of being the person who steps in when nobody else does. I’m tired of being the person who speaks up when everyone else stays quiet. I’m tired of being blamed for things I didn’t decide alone. I’m tired of feeling like I have to defend myself for caring enough to say something when things aren’t right.
I’m ready to be done.
But I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel when other people were ready for me to be done, too.
I didn’t want anyone begging me to stay. I didn’t need a parade. I wasn’t expecting somebody to name a concession stand after me.
Although, let’s be honest, after all the tim we’ve spent in that damn building, we might have earned a plaque. 😂
I just wanted to feel like the years mattered.
Like the sacrifices were seen. Like I was more than the person who made sure everything got done.
My husband stood up at Monday’s meeting and spoke about what we’d been through. He defended me. He acknowledged that I hadn’t been making decisions alone, even when I was the only one willing to say things publicly.
People applauded him. And I’m glad they did. He deserved that.
The director thanked both of us before we left. I know he appreciates what we’ve done.
But I still walked away feeling strangely invisible. And I hate admitting that because it sounds like I’m asking for recognition.
Maybe I am. Maybe after years of giving so much of myself, I wanted someone to look at me and acknowledge that it meant something.
Not because I needed another title. Because I wanted to know I mattered beyond what I could do for them.
I thought I wanted to be free of the responsibilities. I didn’t realize how much of my identity was wrapped up in carrying them.
One Last Friday Night Behind the Register
Tomorrow night is our final concessions event.
Our last one. Ever. And I don’t even want to go.
My husband asked me to be there because it’s his last event, too. And since nobody had signed up to run a cash register, well, here we are.
One final Friday night behind a cash register.
It’s almost comical how perfectly that sums up the last several years.
My daughter will be performing, and I’ll be working concessions.
That’s been our normal for so long that I don’t even know what to make of it anymore.
After tomorrow, that part of our lives is over.
No more Friday night concessions. No more marching band performances. No more running around trying to make sure everything is ready before the gates open. No more wondering whether enough volunteers will show up.
And next fall?
I probably won’t even go to a football game.
Not because I hate football. I actually enjoy watching when I’m there.
But the reason I went was to watch my daughter perform.
And that chapter is closing, too.
It’s not just a volunteer position ending. It’s an entire part of our family’s life.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
A Full Calendar Doesn’t Mean I Know Where I Belong
The ridiculous thing is that I’m not exactly running out of things to do.
Club volleyball starts next week. Tournaments begin in January and run into June.
We are getting our own hot dog stand up off the ground, and apparently I’ve already been appointed cashier, accountant, money keeper, and whatever other job he decides I need to do.
So much for retirement.
But this is different.
This is something we’re building for our family.
Something we hope will help us become more financially stable. Something we’re excited about.
And then there’s Anchor Accounting Solutions.
That’s mine.
Something I’ve been slowly building because I genuinely love the work.
I love digging into accounting messes and figuring out what went wrong. I love creating systems, finding solutions, and helping businesses understand what’s happening in their books.
I want to help other accountants and bookkeepers learn how to do proper cleanups. I want to help business owners who are overwhelmed and don’t know where to start. I want to take everything I’ve learned and turn it into something useful for somebody else.
And yes, I’d like to make a little money doing it.
Not six figures. Not some extravagant lifestyle.
I’d just like to be able to pay for golf lessons for my son without wondering where the money is going to come from.
That’s it. That’s the dream.
I finished my MBA after nearly two years of work, and I’m already looking at going back to school for a bachelor’s degree in forensic accounting.
I’m excited about what that could mean for my career and for Anchor.
I have plans. I have goals. I have things I’m genuinely looking forward to.
So why do I feel like I’m losing myself?
Maybe because having things to do isn’t the same as having somewhere you belong. Maybe because building a business isn’t the same as being part of a community. Maybe because I spent so many years being needed that I never stopped to figure out who I was when nobody was asking me for anything.
And now that the requests are finally going to stop, I don’t know what to do with the silence.
I Wanted to Be Wanted. So Why Does Not Being Needed Hurt?
A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I didn’t want to be needed. I wanted to be wanted.
And I meant every word of it.
I was tired of people coming to me because they needed something done. I wanted people to want me around because they enjoyed my company. Because they valued my friendship. Because I mattered to them as a person.
Not because I could reconcile a bank account, order concession supplies, or figure out why the cash drawer was short.
But now I’m facing something I didn’t anticipate.
For years, being needed gave me a sense of belonging.
Even when it exhausted me. Even when I complained about it. Even when I desperately wanted a break.
I knew where I fit. I knew what my role was. I knew where I was supposed to be.
And now I don’t.
I don’t know whether I’m grieving the people. Or the purpose. Or the feeling of belonging somewhere.
Maybe it’s all three.
Maybe I’m grieving the version of myself who genuinely loved being involved before everything became so complicated. Maybe I’m grieving the friendships I thought I had. Maybe I’m grieving the years I spent giving everything I had to something that ended in a way I never imagined.
Or maybe I’m simply scared.
Scared that when I stop being the person everyone comes to, I’ll discover that nobody really wanted me around in the first place.
I don’t know if that’s true. I know feelings aren’t always facts.
But that doesn’t make the feeling disappear.
And I don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I can be so excited about what’s ahead while simultaneously feeling like I’m losing a piece of myself.
I spent six years building a place for myself in this community.
Now I’m walking away from that place.
Not because I stopped caring. Not because I have nothing left to give. But because I can’t keep giving myself away the way I have been.
I thought the hardest part would be deciding to leave.
Turns out, the hardest part might be figuring out who I am afterward.
And right now? I don’t have a damn clue.