Don’t worry, I got it
How people-pleasing let me avoid the vulnerability of reciprocity
Like all of us recovering people-pleasers, this survival pattern began in childhood. Just a brief summary of my story… I was an emotionally sensitive kid whose parents were emotionally cut off. This not only led to emotional neglect, but it meant that I found my place in being their emotional caregiver. I knew how to be there for them, including counseling them in their marriage from the age of 12 until my Dad passed away when I was 49 years old. They didn't have the capacity to be there for me, but somehow, even at a young age, I managed to find the capacity to be there for them. I tried to stop a few times, but the truth was that they still lacked the capacity, so it wasn't like if I stopped I would suddenly get met emotionally. That still wasn't an option. I felt the cost of it, but didn't know how to explain it. I decided paying the cost was worth the connection, because either way my desire to just be "a daughter" would go unmet. I knew they loved me as best they could. They were my parents after all. We were connected for life. Parents and children. It's a blood thing. But outside of that, every other relationship is a choice (and sometimes, under certain circumstances, even the parental one is too). What I want to explore is the misunderstanding that came out of this pattern. Namely, that I came to believe I had the power to make up for what was missing in the relationship. I came to believe I could make up for their lack of capacity. What this also meant is that I took on a level of responsibility for their lack. "Don't worry. I got it!" What that allowed me to do was to by-pass the hurt, grief and vulnerability of not being met in an essential relationship where I was fully dependent.
It felt unbearable to feel unseen, unknown or cared for emotionally. When I was young and for so long I thought there was something wrong with me. I must need too much. I must be too much. Because their lack of capacity was real. They were so cut off emotionally that they couldn't handle their own emotions, let alone mine. That was real. And incredibly lonely. If I couldn't be met, at least I could be useful. And being useful felt like such a relief! They couldn't be there for me, but look, they need me! I can be there for them. That's something! No amount of effort on my part could have helped them grow their capacity. But some part of me refused to believe that. So I did everything I could to fill the gap — as if enough effort might eventually prove me wrong. Now here's the painful truth: who knows… maybe if I wasn't busy filling the gap, they would have increased their capacity. We have no idea. Maybe they would. Given everything I knew about their capacity, it seemed unlikely — but I couldn't bear finding out for certain, so I kept working. Because if they didn't grow their capacity, what would that mean for us? What would we have? What would be left?
What I didn't know then, that I am only learning now, is that a healthy relationship requires reciprocity — two people showing up, each choosing to. That's what makes it so vulnerable: I only ever have agency over one of us. One person can't do it alone, no matter how good they are at it.
For years I heard the saying, give what you want to receive, or if you change, the other person has to change — because the pattern can't continue if one person in it changes. That part was true. When I changed my part, they didn't follow. The pattern broke, but so did the relationship — it would go tense, start to fray at the edges. And rather than let it fall apart, I'd fill the gap again. I used these sayings as justifications for trying to give more, be more, love better, communicate better, understand more, try harder. It was all in the name of trying to hold on to something, but not recognizing that I was the only one holding on. I was so busy. I was so competent. I was so powerful. Don't worry. I can give and not need anything back. Sometimes that meant trying every angle to get them to show up. Other times it meant giving up on that altogether and just doing it all myself, if only to keep the peace. Either way, I stayed the one holding it. Again, another noble idea. To give without expecting anything in return. Oh how I tried! I tried! But the ultimate vulnerability of relationship is that it takes two, and I only have agency over one of those people. I don't get to make them try, grow, want what I want, no matter how noble the cause. And I can't cover their portion. Relationships take two. I didn't learn that from my childhood. Instead, I learned that I can carry it all. I could minimize what I needed and focus on being useful instead, since they didn't have the capacity to meet me anyway. Sometimes the sense of entitlement would make me angry, but not for long. I would just feel guilty and try again.
I believe my parents did want the same connection I wanted. What I didn't understand was that wanting it and participating in it are two different things. I didn't realize they could sit back and let me do all the work of having it — that my effort could substitute for their participation, at least on the surface.
With my mom, I'm still working on this. Still working on acceptance. As long as I keep needing something from her that she doesn't have to give, I'll keep experiencing her as not enough — and I imagine that's a hard place for her to be, too. So the real option isn't waiting for her to meet me. It's learning to stop going to her for something she doesn't have to offer. Not because I stopped needing it. But because going to a place that can't offer it doesn't serve either of us.
But when my Dad died, something shifted in me. That relational contract ended — not because I chose it, not because he suddenly met me, but because he died. It had me reflect: where else in my life am I choosing this? Do I want to keep choosing it?
In the relationships I was actually choosing, I didn't just show up once and quietly start managing everything before anyone had a chance to meet me. I brought my needs and my vulnerability, more than once. And more than once, I watched what happened: defensiveness, the script flipped back onto me, a conversation that somehow left me feeling worse than before I'd spoken up. So I did what I always did — I assumed it was me. Maybe I wasn't communicating it right. Maybe I needed to be more accountable for my own expectations. Maybe I just needed to love better. I tried a dozen different ways of showing up, hoping one of them would finally be the one that worked. It took exhausting every version of myself before I could see what was actually true: it wasn't me. Their capacity was what it was, no matter how I brought it.
Only then did the relief come — finally not having to keep trying to hold us both up. And close behind it, grief — because underneath all those attempts was real proof, gathered the hard way, that wanting the same thing I wanted wasn't the same as being willing to do the work required to have it. It was as if wanting it was enough for them — because frankly, it had been enough for me too, for a long time, while I kept running around trying to fill the gap myself. Eventually I had to admit my own powerlessness in handing back the part of the relationship that was never mine to carry, which meant letting go of something I had spent years hoping and working toward.
I avoided the vulnerability of reciprocity — not because I didn't know they couldn't meet me, but because I never let myself feel what that meant. Every time I found out, again, that they didn't have the capacity, I just found another way to try: mirror them, invite them, ask directly, hint, own more of it myself. As long as I believed my effort could somehow influence their capacity, I didn't have to feel the pain of what I already knew. I got to feel like I had the power to change the outcome. When in truth, that sense of power cost me knowing my own worth, nurturing myself, and being responsible for choosing relationships where the other person's capacity actually mattered.
Where in your own life are you the one filling the gap?
What are you calling love, or commitment, or patience — that might actually be avoidance?
And if you stopped, even for a moment... what would you have to feel?