When Helping Hurts: From Financial Duty to Emotional Burnout

There’s something about fall that makes us stop and take stock. The air cools. The pace slows. We feel the tug of nostalgia. We recall memories of harvest and of gathering. We remember traditions that remind us where we come from. It’s a season of comfort and appreciation, but also one of reckoning. As leaves fall away, we see more clearly what we’ve been carrying—and what we need to let go.

For many in diaspora communities, one of the heaviest things we carry is financial duty. Sending money home. Covering medical bills. Keeping extended family afloat when jobs collapse, retirement plans fall short, or school fees come due. These acts are beautiful and necessary. They connect us back to our roots. They express love across oceans, time zone and generations. Yet, they can also quietly eat away at our own well-being.

Globally, remittances topped $905 billion in 2024, with about $656 billion flowing into low- and middle-income countries. That’s nearly a trillion dollars leaving the hands of earners like us every year. But behind the macro story is a personal one. There is the stress. There is the guilt. There is the exhaustion of being the one who always sends. Studies show that “remittance stressors” lead to higher levels of anxiety. They also cause increased depression. Additionally, they contribute to financial insecurity among migrants and first-generation earners.

At some point, family duty can become toxic—not because giving is wrong, but because the obligation becomes constant. Because the requests never stop. Your own future gets deferred repeatedly. Guilt whispers that you’re selfish even for asking, “What about me?”

I’ve seen it firsthand. Friends who earn well but live with no safety net, one crisis away from collapse. Their savings drained, their mental health frayed, their ability to dream quietly stifled by the endless pull of obligation.

Fall reminds us to conserve strength. Just as trees shed leaves, we too must protect our core. Saying no—or reshaping how we give—doesn’t mean abandoning family, but making support sustainable.

That’s why I built Bitesize Capital: to shift from reactive giving to intentional building. To pool capital, share risk, and craft collective strategies that honor responsibility without erasing ourselves.

This fall, as we lean into reflection, let’s admit it: we can’t keep pouring from empty cups. Sometimes the bravest act of love is filling your own first.