Who Listens to the Listener?

A Psychologist Who Needs to Talk

It’s 11:47 p.m. when my phone vibrates. A text from a friend: “Hey, are you awake? I just need to talk.”

I sigh, rubbing my eyes, exhaustion settling deep. I know that if I answer, I’ll slip into my usual role — the listener, the supporter, the one who knows what to say. And I also know that if I don’t, guilt will creep in, whispering that I’m letting someone down.

So, I answer.

I reassure. I offer insights. I sit with their pain, absorbing it so they don’t have to carry it alone. When the conversation ends, they thank me. “You always know what to say. I feel much better now.”

And then, silence.

I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling. A thought rises, one I try to push away: Who do I call when I feel this way? Have I even given myself time to notice if I do actually feel this way?

I don’t remember exactly when I became this person. Maybe it was childhood, learning early that being useful was a way to feel needed. I was the friend who mediated fights in the playground, the one teachers relied on to help settle others down. I recall the trip to a theme park and being asked to watch the angry boy in the class so he didn’t get into fights. I was twelve. Or maybe it was in university, when friends would knock on my door at 2 a.m., seeking reassurance after a breakup or an existential crisis, trusting me to hold their emotions for them, or predict their future in the oracle cards — the place I got my own reassurance.

Perhaps it was my work as a psychologist, where listening became second nature, exposed to the pain of others, a daily routine. In a single day, I would (and still do) witness raw grief, anxiety, trauma and the kind of despair that made people question their own existence. I’d spend hours holding space for others. Offering strategies, validation, and presence — but at the end of the day, I never asked myself: Who listens to me?

I also now understand how much of this was masking. I have ADHD, though I wasn’t diagnosed until adulthood. Growing up, I learned that being “too noisy,” “too quiet” “too emotional”, “too forgetful” — was something to be controlled. So I became the opposite: the calm one, the reliable one, the person others could count on. I learned to mirror what people needed from me, to suppress my own overwhelm so I wouldn’t be seen as a burden. I now also realise that I had some kind of fear about those close to me becoming unable to cope emotionally. As that happened to my father, and he left.

It worked. People saw me as strong. Steady. Unshakable. But inside, I think I’ve always been exhausted. My tolerance for exhaustion just seems pretty big.

When my first daughter was born, everything changed. I wasn’t just emotionally available to friends, colleagues, and clients — I was now responsible for this tiny human who needed me every second of the day. The exhaustion was overwhelming, but in true ADHD style that’s the point I started my psychology degree. I’d sit in the middle of the night, studying, breastfeeding and staring at unanswered messages on my phone — requests for advice, check-ins that weren’t really check-ins but rather an opening for someone else to share their problems.

For the first time in my life, I had nothing left to give anyone else. Some people understood. Others didn’t. One friend, after I hadn’t been as responsive to her messages, said, “I hope you don’t have any more children.” Another sarcastically remarked, “Well, I hope I’m still awake when you finally have time to call.”

I laughed it off. But inside, I felt something shift. Had I spent years building relationships where my value was tied to my availability? Where my presence was only appreciated when it came with no boundaries? Conditional companions.

It hurt, but it also woke me up, which wasn’t bad going, given the lack of sleep in that period of my life!

I used to work in corporate settings where, if I took time off sick, no one checked in on me. No messages. No “hope you’re feeling better.” It made me wonder — was I that invisible? Did I matter so little?

Then one day, my boss made an offhand remark: “You always sound so cheerful when you call in sick. We joke that you’re off shopping!” I laughed, but inside, something clicked and it wasn’t the sound of the cash register.

I had never let on when I was struggling. I had taught people to see me as someone who didn’t need checking in on. I had masked my exhaustion, my stress, my moments of burnout so well that no one even considered that I might need support too.

I remember a time when I sat in a hospital waiting room, following a fall in pregnancy waiting for test results that could change everything. My phone buzzed. A message: “I’ve, not heard from you. Are you okay?” Relief washed over me for a split second, I could share my anxiety — until I read the next message: “Actually, can I talk to you about something? I’ve been really low.”

It was then that I started to understand the cost of masking. I had convinced people I never needed help, so they stopped offering it. I had trained myself to minimise my own struggles, so I stopped recognising them.

But my ADHD diagnosis changed that. It was like looking at myself with new eyes. I wasn’t just “too sensitive” or “bad at boundaries.” My brain was wired to feel deeply, to pick up on the emotions of others, to absorb them as if they were my own unless I put a lot of effort into regulating this. And I wasn’t weak for feeling overwhelmed and needing downtime — I was just human.

Slowly, I let the mask slip. I started being honest when I was exhausted. I allowed myself to say, “I can’t take this on right now.” I stopped believing that my worth was tied to how much I could give and do. My core belief of “I must cope” began to dilute to coping meaning, stopping and becoming overwhelmed and allowing myself to simply ‘be’ and not ‘do’.

I also started being honest about not wanting to socialise as much — not out of avoidance, but out of self-awareness. Lockdown helped me with this. Before, I would push myself to attend gatherings, fearing that if I declined, people would think I didn’t care. Now, I listen to myself. If I don’t have the energy, I don’t force it. I allow myself to opt out without guilt. I’m usually wanting to write, exercise or take photos these are my outlets and I struggle to not have access to them in order to unwind.

When I travel with friends, I request single rooms. Not because I don’t enjoy company, but because I need solitude and downtime. I used to share spaces out of obligation, thinking it was selfish to want time alone or that they would think I was rude. But now I understand that my nervous system craves space, that I process the world differently, and that I am allowed to meet my own needs without apology.

It’s taken me years to unlearn my masking pattern. To realise that setting boundaries doesn’t mean I don’t care — it means I care about myself too. Now, when I feel overwhelmed, I take a step back. I say ‘no’ without justifying it. I remind myself that real friendships, the kind that matter, don’t crumble the moment you stop being endlessly available, or you decline the next event.

And sometimes, I even pick up my phone at 11:47 p.m. and send my own message: “Hey, are you awake? I just need to talk” — but often I still say those words to myself, get my oracle cards out and journal my thoughts. Not because I feel I have no option, as I do. I realise that this is just how I function — by sharing that this is my way of being, I’m finally letting others enter into my own little ‘house of cards’.

I have a passion for rewriting narratives and giving a voice to the unheard. As a Chartered Clinical Psychologist, Clinical Hypnotherapist, and Jungian Life Coach, I bridge science and spirit, conscious and unconscious, working holistically to help others navigate healing and transformation. My personal experiences with neurodivergence, trauma, women’s health issues, parenting, spiritual awakenings, and relationship challenges, deeply inform my work. I regularly provide expert testimony in courts and commentary to the media and strive to make psychological insights accessible, weaving together evidence-based science with holistic and spiritual wisdom. Learn more about my work at www.drtracyking.co.uk.