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Description

Today’s question: “I care deeply about others, but sometimes I feel bitter or resentful when I help. I don’t want to stop caring, but how do I keep going without feeling used or invisible?”

Your messy adviser, Johan, dives right into this all-too-relatable conundrum of invisible labour and emotional weightlifting for those who always find themselves signing up to bring snacks—and end up planning the whole event. With a good dose of humour and biblical honesty, this Summer Speedos conversation pulls back the curtain on caregiver burnout, punch-cards for serving too often, and the quiet ache of feeling unnoticed even while carrying the load for everyone else. Whether you’re coordinating volunteers or just trying to keep a group chat alive, tune in for encouragement and the reminder that your care doesn’t go unseen, even if you occasionally whisper "you’re welcome" to a thankless room of empty chairs.

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This one's for anyone who's ever made a casserole with love and then found

out the group text kept going without them. Let's be

honest, sometimes caring feels more like carrying

everyone else's needs, emergencies, and expectations,

stacked silently on your back while you smile and say, happy to

help, and over time, all that quiet effort starts to feel

less like love and more like emotional weightlifting. You

sign up to bring snacks, just snacks, and three

weeks later, you're coordinating volunteers, sending reminder

emails, and learning what a gluten free, nut free, dairy light muffin

is, all because you made eye contact at the wrong time.

This is messy advice for people who care, for anyone who keeps showing up

with love while secretly wondering if invisible labor counts for

heavenly rewards. This is Johan on the

edge of helpful, here to talk about care, calling, and

why emotional labor should at least come with loyalty points.

Today's question gets honest about something many of us feel but

don't always name. Let's get right into it.

I care deeply about others, but sometimes I feel

bitter or resentful when I help. I don't wanna stop

caring, but how do I keep going without feeling used or

invisible? Hey. If you've ever loved

with everything you've got and still walked away frustrated,

you're not alone. According to a 2023 Angus

Reid study, sixty three percent of Canadian caregivers

reported feeling unseen in their roles, especially those

providing emotional or informal support to others. And this

isn't just about people doing ministry endeavors, the ones handing out the

volunteer t shirts that all end up looking the same and, therefore, unseen

or invisible. It's the quiet caregivers, the unofficial

chaplains of casseroles, check ins, the emotional

triage, showing up with fanfare and slowly fading

into the background, the ones who sign up first, clean

up last, and somehow always end up holding the group chat

together with duct tape and emojis. We're not burned out because we

don't care. We're burned out because we do. Caring

doesn't automatically make you a saint, and feeling resentment

doesn't make you selfish. It makes you human

with limits, with expectations, and probably

a half used punch card for serving too often.

Caring without resentment isn't about pretending. It's about

pacing, and most of us have been sprinting on empty for a while.

Sometimes serving joyfully feels less like ministry and

more like emotional DoorDash, delivering comfort and connection while your

own tank is on empty. You show up early to set up

chairs. You stay late to clean up, drop off meals,

say yes to one more thing. And when no one thanks you

or worse, when people just assume you'll do it again, you smile

politely, go home, and start sauteing onions because at

least they'll give you a reason for the tears you're already holding

back. But what does the scripture have to say about this? Let's

get biblical. Biblical. Let's

look at Luke 15. In the parable of the prodigal son,

we often focus on the one who left home. But tucked in at

the end of the story is another character, one a lot of us

quietly relate to, the older brother that didn't

leave. He didn't waste the money. He stayed. He

worked hard. He carried the load when his brother left.

And when his runaway sibling returns and gets the royal treatment, a robe,

a ring, a fattened calf, a big party,

you can feel his jaw tighten from across the field. He

hears the music. He smells the barbecue, and he stays

outside. And when his father comes out to invite him in,

the older brother lets it all spill out. I've been

slaving for all these years. I've never disobeyed, and not

once did he throw a party for me. That's not bitterness out of

nowhere. That's years of effort unnoticed.

That's someone who kept saying yes quietly, reliably,

and is now wondering why it doesn't feel like it mattered. And here's

what's beautiful. The father doesn't scold him. He

doesn't say, you should be more like your brother. He

says, you are always with me, and everything I have

is yours. It's not just a correction. It's a

reminder. You belong. You've always belonged,

not because of what you've done, but because you're mine.

Maybe the older brother isn't the warning we've made him out to be.

Maybe he's the honest one, finally voicing what caregivers and

behind the scenes people have felt for years. And maybe part of

healing from resentment is not pretending you're okay, but

remembering you were never unnoticed by the father who sees it all.

Your value isn't based on how much you give. You are allowed

to rest. You are allowed to feel. To not always be the one

holding it all together. Love isn't about running yourself into the

ground. It's about showing up fully, not flawlessly.

So if you've been carrying on fumes, this might be your

sign. Step back. Take a breath.

You are not a resource. You are a person, and you matter too.

And just know that your father sees you in what you do in the

secret. And, hey, this is an opportunity for you to see the others that

might go unnoticed around you, to recognize them and the work that they're

doing. And if you wanna join the conversation, go find us on our

Care Impact podcast group on Facebook. Join a group of

like minded people and get into the conversation. We'd love to hear your

stories, especially the parts that don't look picture perfect.

Until next time, keep loving, keep laughing, and if you've

ever whispered, you're welcome to a roomful of ungrateful chairs,

solidarity, and maybe take a week off from setting up the

chairs, And always remember to stay curious.