The Boundary Before the Boundary

There I was, in another moment of having done the work to get to the clarity of what was true for me. I mentally rehearsed all the ways I could say it. I knew it was going to be hard to hear. I knew it was a truth that would sting — not because it was mean, but because it was an outcome neither of us wanted, but here it was… undeniable any longer. I was the one carrying it… alone, because it was MY truth. I tried to argue with it… I really tried! For years! I tried to make it untrue in every way I knew how and the darn thing wouldn't budge. In fact, it only got louder. I could feel it in my body as a contraction that wouldn't let up. I finally got the courage to say it, out loud. Here it comes… there, it's out. Oh no! I just watched their heartbreak in slow motion. Oh shit! I did that. I just said the most honest thing in the kindest way I could and it did exactly what I thought it would do.

Then the fog rolled in. Suddenly I wasn't so sure anymore. The edges started to blur… no, no! I don't want to hurt you. Please don't hurt! I'm sorry! How can I help? And there it was… I went from me to them that quickly. I didn't see it coming. It just happened. And the truth I had just spoken got pulled further away until it was barely a whisper, and their pain became the loudest thing in the room. My pain — the pain my truth was trying to heal — faded too, and now my pain was about their pain. I was hurting with them, for them. The boundary blurred… there was no longer a me and them. Their pain had become the center of it all, for both of us. And it all happened in a nanosecond.

It Looks Like Love

I've come to recognize this collapse. It doesn't look like weakness from the outside — it looks like love.

Caregiving is so automatic for me that it feels like regular ol' love and compassion. Someone I care about a little or a lot is hurting because of something I just said. The caretaking began before I even said a word — in the days and hours spent trying to say it just right, to minimize the impact. Then it continues when what I've said hurts anyway, because sometimes the truth is just like that no matter how pretty you say it. The moment I see the pain in their eyes — the disappointment, fear, anger, grief — that's the moment I forget my truth, my pain, my fear, my anger, my grief, and try to soothe theirs. I'm not doing it expecting them to care for me. I'm doing it because it feels like the way to love someone. It rarely occurs to me that I've just forgotten myself, because — well — I forgot myself. But then later, after I have taken care of them, I feel disoriented. I feel like, wait! What just happened? I worked so hard to say what was true for me, and then suddenly it was negotiable and negligible. I return to myself with my head held low, like now I have to build up the courage all over again to say it — but mean it this time.

Not a Need, a Description

For a long time, I thought the fix was to get better at saying what I needed. It wasn't until much later that I understood the problem was never about what I needed at all.

I used to think boundaries were about me being able to express my needs. Since I had convinced myself I was low maintenance — with a steady diet of even those needs going unmet — having boundaries felt negotiable. I was so used to accommodating, adapting, going with the flow that clearly I didn't need much… I was here, after all, so clearly I could function without them, therefore they were not really needs. You see how easily and flawlessly that happens.

Then something shifted. I noticed that while I can operate without my needs being met (which therefore made them not needs), I rarely functioned as well. I remember very vividly having a moment of acceptance in an important relationship… oh!! They've been telling me who they are all along. I haven't believed them. Oh! Wait! I also have been saying who I am all along, and I haven't believed me. The grief, relief, and love washed over me — for all of us. Suddenly my boundaries weren't about what I "need." They were a description of who I am. This is me. This is who I am, and the environments I operate best in.

Boundaries are markers of where one thing ends and another begins, like a fence marking property lines. As a people-pleaser, my boundaries were either blurry or non-existent. As I've said in previous writings, people-pleasing is a form of self-care directed outwardly. I let others squat on my property, use whatever space I had, in order to make myself more comfortable. It felt so good to be hospitable and generous, until it didn't — until regular maintenance went neglected and I was running around trying to put buckets under every leak. Boundaries are like fences with a gate, and I get to check in and ask, "Is now a good time? Do I have the time and energy for this visit? Can I show up for this person without neglecting myself?" In other words, I check what's inside the gate before I open it to what's on the outside asking to come in.

Suddenly I wasn't responsible for getting my needs met in a relationship, and neither was the other person. I was responsible for knowing myself and taking care of myself — including deciding which environments and relationships vibe best with me. I don't have to work for it in a relationship that isn't offering it. I don't have to work for it at all. I just have to accept it about myself, and then care for myself knowing what's true for me.

Talking Myself Into It First

Knowing that felt like the whole answer. It wasn't. Knowing who I am doesn't automatically mean I can stand in it the moment it's tested — that took something else. What I am not doing anymore is talking myself out of my truth. Instead, I first spend time with it in my own body. I find that when I rush to speak it, if I myself haven't accepted it first, it can easily turn to self-doubt at the first moment of resistance from someone outside of myself. This means I have to work through my own resistance to what is. Sometimes what's true for me doesn't have agreement from all the various parts of myself.

For instance, I often want to be friends with a shiny, sparkly person, but that person tends to be a bit flaky and unreliable. Part of me sees them and their sparkly nature and says, yes! I want to be friends with them! Then there are a few low-stakes moments of them not showing up, or making small promises they don't keep. My truth is that I no longer chase shiny objects, even though I may be attracted to them. I am learning to admire them from afar. It's not a closed-off position so much as a discernment position. This requires me to first process that desire to be closer, to allow myself permission to enjoy without feeling like I'm missing out, or to be okay with the feeling of missing out. To stay in my truth first requires me to fully accept it and process it first. I have spent so much time talking myself out of, minimizing, rejecting… In other words, I am often the first person to gaslight myself, making it that much more likely that I can be gaslit from someone outside of myself.

Fence Posts in Cement

Once I stopped gaslighting myself, the outward part — actually saying it — changed shape too.

Depending on how big or small my truth is, I may need more or less time metabolizing it. "Where should we go for dinner?" requires me to check in and actually ask myself what sounds good to me, and just say one true thing. It doesn't mean I can't still be adaptable from there, but saying and speaking my truth in low-stakes moments helps me practice for the bigger truths.

For more substantial truths, like "this relationship isn't working for me," I may need longer moments of digestion — not to argue with myself, talk myself out of it, or make the other person wrong or bad (in my experience, that definitely causes indigestion and heartburn), but to allow the truth to wash over me and through me. This means feeling all the feelings that come up when I believe myself, including the grief, anger, disappointment, sadness. To allow myself to accept what's true, first. Then, in the moment I speak it, I am able to stand in it without collapsing at the other person's response. I set the fence posts in cement first, so the fence is sturdy regardless of the weather that comes at it from the other side.

This isn't about stubbornness or being immobile. The truth can still evolve, but it will evolve slowly and with discernment as new information arrives. This doesn't mean I don't feel the impulse to caretake the other person in their feelings — oh, that impulse is still there — but just like I needed time to digest, I feel more free to allow the other person time and space to digest. It's a slower process, but it allows for greater authenticity and grace. If I am claiming greater authenticity for myself, I am also allowing it in others. It doesn't mean I have to stick around for a harsh or dysregulated reaction, but I no longer need to take it personally.

The One Thing I Take Personally

That freedom didn't come from getting better at boundaries as a skill. It came from something underneath the skill.

Accepting myself hasn't just been a lesson in overcoming self-doubt. In accepting myself, I have also learned that I am responsible for whatever comes up. I have been shirking that responsibility and instead caring for everyone else. I understand where this came from, and how I chose this as a substitute to overcome the pain of emotional neglect, but at 50 years old, it is time for me to grow up and claim responsibility for this pattern and my life. I don't say that with shame — lessons are learned when the timing is ripe. For me, growing up emotionally means being first and foremost responsible for myself. When I step into the world and into relationship from this place, I am more authentic and trustworthy in all of my relationships. The one thing I absolutely need to take personally is my own life.