HEALING, EMOTIONS & RELATIONSHIPS
Understanding what we carry, how we connect, and what healing asks of us.
EMOTIONS DON'T DISAPPEAR — THEY WAIT
We live in a world that often teaches us to suppress emotions, push through, and move on.
Don't dwell on it.
Stay strong.
Get over it.
Keep going.
And sometimes, of course, we do need to keep going.
There are responsibilities to meet, people who depend on us, work to do, and moments when we simply don't have the time or space to process everything we're feeling.
But there is an important difference between setting an emotion aside temporarily and never returning to it at all.
Because emotions don't necessarily disappear simply because we ignore them.
What we don't process, we may continue to carry.
Sometimes it shows up as irritability.
Tension.
Overthinking.
A reaction that seems much bigger than the situation in front of us.
A familiar trigger that keeps returning.
Or an emotional response we don't completely understand.
We may wonder:
Why did that affect me so much?
Sometimes the answer isn't entirely about what just happened. The present moment may have touched something older. An experience. A fear. A disappointment. A wound.
A feeling we never had the opportunity—or perhaps the safety—to fully acknowledge.
And this is where healing asks something very different from suppression. It asks us to become curious about what we carry. Not to dramatize every emotion. Not to analyze ourselves endlessly. And certainly not to spend our entire lives digging through the emotional archives looking for something else to fix. We already know how those archives feel about office hours. 😂
But when something continues to return, perhaps we can listen. If possible, step away from the immediate situation. Find a quiet space. Breathe. Allow the intensity to settle enough that you can ask yourself:
What am I actually feeling?
Not:
What should I be feeling?
Not:
Is this feeling reasonable?
Simply:
What is here? Anger? Fear? Sadness? Disappointment? Shame? Grief? Loneliness?
Sometimes naming what we feel begins changing our relationship with it.
We are no longer simply inside the emotion.
We are becoming aware of it.
And if we can't process something in the moment, we can return to it later.
At the end of the day, perhaps we journal. Sit quietly. Take a mindful walk. Breathe. Talk with someone we trust.
Or simply ask:
What am I carrying today that needs my attention? Notice that I said attention, not necessarily elimination. Because healing isn't always about making an uncomfortable emotion disappear as quickly as possible.
Sometimes an emotion has something to tell us.
Anger may reveal a boundary that has been crossed.
Sadness may reveal something we deeply valued.
Fear may show us where we don't yet feel safe.
Resentment may reveal that we've been giving more than we genuinely wanted to give.
Loneliness may remind us that we need connection.
Our emotions are not always instructions, and they don't always tell us the complete truth about a situation.
But they can be information.
And when we learn to listen without automatically obeying, suppressing, or judging them, something begins to change.
We become more capable of responding consciously rather than reacting automatically.
That matters in our relationships too.
Because what we don't acknowledge within ourselves can sometimes find its way into the way we speak, withdraw, defend, blame, please, control, or connect with other people.
Unprocessed emotion doesn't always stay quietly inside us.
Sometimes it enters the room before we realize we've brought it with us.
Healing begins when we are willing to notice. To feel. To understand. To give ourselves space to process what once had nowhere to go.
We don't have to resolve everything today. We don't have to excavate every experience from our past. But perhaps we can stop expecting ourselves to heal from things we have never allowed ourselves to feel.
Because what is buried doesn't necessarily disappear.
But when we are finally willing to listen to what we feel, something can begin to change. The emotion that once lived within us as pain, tension, fear, or resistance can be acknowledged, understood, and gradually transformed.
Perhaps emotions don't disappear. Perhaps, when we give them the space to be felt and understood, they change form.
APOLOGIES, ENERGETIC BALANCE AND HEALING THE PAST
Why is it sometimes so difficult to move on from a painful past?
Whether between individuals, families, communities, or even generations, unresolved hurt has a way of lingering.
One reason may be surprisingly simple:
People want to know that their pain has been seen and acknowledged.
When we have been hurt, we don't necessarily need someone to erase what happened. They can't.
We don't always need a perfect explanation. Sometimes there isn't one. But there can be something profoundly healing about hearing:
I understand that this hurt you.
I see the impact this had on you.
I'm sorry.
An apology cannot change the past. But it can change something about the way the past is carried into the present.
An apology is more than saying "sorry."
A meaningful apology doesn't necessarily mean accepting responsibility for every detail of a complicated history. Two people may remember the same experience differently. Both may have been hurt. Both may believe their interpretation is accurate. But even when perspectives differ, we can sometimes acknowledge another person's pain without having to agree on every detail.
We can say:
"I may remember this differently, but I understand that your experience was painful."
There is tremendous humanity in that. Because acknowledgment says: Your experience matters to me. And sometimes that is where healing begins.
What do I mean by energetic balance? When something remains unresolved between two people, there can be a sense of unfinished emotional business. Words never spoken. Responsibility never acknowledged. Pain never recognized. Resentment carried forward.
The past continues occupying space in the present. When I speak about energetic balance, I think of what happens when we stop carrying that unresolved emotional weight in exactly the same way.
An honest apology may contribute to that. So can forgiveness, a boundary, a conversation, acceptance, or simply deciding: I no longer want this experience to determine how I live today. Healing does not always require the other person to participate. That matters.
Because sometimes we will never receive the apology we deserve.
The other person may not understand. They may remember things differently. They may be unwilling to take responsibility. They may no longer be part of our lives. If our healing depends entirely upon someone else finally saying the right words, we may remain emotionally connected to something we cannot control.
We can want acknowledgment without making our freedom dependent upon receiving it. That distinction can be incredibly powerful.
And what if we are the ones who caused the hurt? Then perhaps healing asks us to become brave enough to look honestly at our own behaviour.
Not to drown in guilt. Not to punish ourselves indefinitely.
But to take responsibility where responsibility belongs.
A sincere apology isn't:
"I'm sorry you feel that way."
It isn't:
"I'm sorry, but you also..."
And it isn't an attempt to make the other person reassure us that we're actually a good person.
Sometimes an apology simply needs to say: I see what I did. I understand that it hurt you. I'm sorry. I want to do better. And then the most important part begins: living differently.
Because an apology without changed behaviour can become another wound.
An apology doesn't guarantee reconciliation. Someone can sincerely apologize, and the other person may still need distance. Trust may take time to rebuild. A relationship may never return to what it was. And sometimes reconciliation isn't appropriate or desired.
Healing and reconciliation are not the same thing An apology can open the door. It cannot require another person to walk through it. What it can do is introduce something new into a place where hurt once stood alone:
Acknowledgment.
Empathy.
Responsibility.
Perhaps understanding.
Perhaps peace.
And sometimes, eventually, forgiveness.
We cannot rewrite the past.
But we can change what we carry forward from it. Sometimes that happens through receiving an apology. Sometimes through offering one. Sometimes through forgiving without ever receiving one.
And sometimes through accepting that what happened cannot be changed while deciding that it will no longer have unlimited authority over the present.
Perhaps healing the past isn't really about going backward at all.
Perhaps it is about becoming free enough to move forward without asking yesterday to keep living today.
ATTACHMENT STYLES: ANXIOUS AND AVOIDANT
Have you ever wondered why some people become increasingly anxious when someone they love pulls away—while others respond to emotional closeness by creating distance?
Why one person wants to talk right now while the other suddenly needs space? Why one person experiences distance as rejection while another experiences emotional intensity as pressure?
Sometimes what looks like a relationship problem in the present may have roots much further back.
Our earliest relationships can help shape the way we learn to experience connection, safety, closeness, and emotional needs.
This is where attachment styles can give us a helpful framework for understanding ourselves. But before we go any further, I want to say something very clearly:
An attachment style is not an identity.
It is not This is who I am. It is certainly not This is how I will always be. And it should never become an excuse for remaining inside patterns that hurt ourselves or other people.
Attachment patterns can help us understand where certain responses may have come from. And understanding gives us somewhere to begin.
How Attachment Patterns Can Begin
As children, we learn about relationships through experience. We learn: Is it safe for me to need someone? Will someone respond when I'm distressed? Are my emotions welcome? Can I depend on the people I love? What happens when I reach for connection?
Children don't sit down and consciously analyze these questions. They experience the answers.
When caregiving is inconsistent or unpredictable, a child may become especially alert to changes in connection: Are you still there? Are we okay? Are you going to leave? That pattern may later show up in adult relationships as what we call anxious attachment.
When caregivers are emotionally unavailable, dismissive, or uncomfortable with emotional needs, a child may learn something different: I need to handle things myself. Depending on people isn't safe. Closeness can feel uncomfortable. That adaptation may later appear as avoidant attachment.
These patterns aren't conscious choices. They are ways we may have learned to protect ourselves and maintain connection—or protect ourselves from the pain of not having it.
And what protected us then may create difficulties now.
Anxious Attachment
Someone with anxious attachment tendencies may become highly sensitive to changes in a relationship—a delayed message, a change in tone, less affection, or a partner asking for space. Something relatively small may activate a much larger internal response.
The mind begins working overtime: Did I do something? Are they upset? Are they losing interest? Are they going to leave?
The person may seek reassurance, overanalyze interactions, or feel an urgent need to restore closeness. Underneath the behaviour may be something very tender: a fear that connection is not secure.
Avoidant Attachment
Someone with avoidant tendencies may respond very differently. When emotional intensity increases, their instinct may be to create distance. They may withdraw, become uncomfortable discussing emotions, minimize their own needs, rely heavily on themselves, or feel overwhelmed when someone wants greater emotional closeness.
From the outside, this can sometimes look like indifference. But underneath it may be another protective strategy: If closeness hasn't always felt safe, distance can feel safer.
And then something particularly interesting can happen.
When Anxious and Avoidant Patterns Meet
One person reaches for connection. The other feels pressure and pulls away. The withdrawal increases the first person's anxiety, so they reach harder. The increased pursuit makes the second person feel even more overwhelmed, so they withdraw further.
And suddenly, both people are unintentionally activating exactly what the other person fears.
The anxious person experiences: See? People leave.
The avoidant person experiences: See? Closeness takes away my freedom.
Neither person may understand what is happening. They may simply conclude, This relationship is impossible.
But perhaps something deeper is being revealed.
The Pattern Is Information, Not Destiny
This is the part I care about most. Learning about attachment styles should never become another way of putting ourselves—or other people—into boxes.
I'm anxious. He's avoidant. That's just how we are. End of story.
No.
The label is useful only if it helps us see the pattern. And once we see the pattern, we can begin asking: Where did I learn this? What happens inside me when I feel someone pulling away? Why does closeness sometimes feel threatening? What am I afraid will happen? What does this reaction remind me of? What did I learn about love, safety, needs, and connection when I was young?
This isn't about blaming our parents or endlessly analyzing childhood. Parents have their own histories, wounds, limitations, circumstances, and attachment patterns.
It is about understanding what we learned so that we can consciously decide what we want to continue carrying.
Because awareness alone isn't the destination. Healing is.
We Can Learn Another Way
If I recognize anxious tendencies within myself, I can begin learning how to create greater security within myself rather than making another person's immediate reassurance responsible for my emotional stability. I can learn to pause, regulate myself, question the story my fear is creating, communicate my needs more directly, and gradually discover: Distance does not always mean abandonment.
If I recognize avoidant tendencies, I can become curious about what happens inside me when someone comes emotionally closer. I can practice remaining present instead of automatically withdrawing, expressing what I feel, allowing myself to need people, communicating when I need space rather than disappearing emotionally, and gradually discover: Closeness does not have to mean losing myself.
This takes time. Old patterns may still appear. A trigger may activate something we thought we had already healed. That doesn't mean nothing has changed. It may simply mean: Here is another place asking for awareness.
And perhaps this is one of the most hopeful things about understanding attachment: we are not condemned to repeat what we learned in childhood.
Through self-awareness, healing, healthier relationships, honest communication, and new experiences of connection, we can develop more secure ways of relating to ourselves and others.
The goal isn't to become a person who is never triggered. It is to become someone who can recognize: Something old has been activated—but I don't have to respond from the old pattern.
We can pause, listen, understand, choose differently, and practice again and again until what once felt unfamiliar begins to feel more natural.
That is how patterns change.
So if you recognize yourself somewhere in these words, please don't turn the recognition into another permanent story about who you are. Let it become an invitation to find the pattern, understand what created it, give yourself what was missing, and practice a different response.
Because what you learned in order to feel safe once does not have to determine how you love forever.
Attachment patterns can be learned. And new patterns can be learned too.
WHEN ALONE NO LONGER MEANS LONELY
There is a difference between being alone and feeling lonely.
It took me time to truly understand that.
For many of us, being alone can carry an emotional meaning far beyond the simple absence of another person. It can feel like: Nobody is here. Nobody chose me. Something is missing. I should have someone. Perhaps even: There must be something wrong with my life if I'm alone.
And when being alone carries those meanings, we may do almost anything to avoid it. We keep ourselves busy, reach for the phone, look for distraction, stay in relationships that no longer feel right, seek reassurance, and fill every quiet space.
Sometimes we don't even realize we're doing it. We simply know that silence feels uncomfortable.
But what if the discomfort isn't really about being alone? What if it is about what being alone has come to mean to us?
That question can open an important door.
Because loneliness is real. Human beings need connection. We need friendship, belonging, affection, conversation, community, and relationships in which we feel seen. Learning to enjoy solitude does not mean pretending we don't need other people.
Independence is not the absence of connection.
But there is something profoundly freeing about reaching a place where connection becomes something we deeply value rather than something we need in order to escape ourselves.
Sometimes solitude reveals what noise was covering.
When everything becomes quiet, we may suddenly encounter thoughts and emotions that were easier to avoid when life was busy: old sadness, restlessness, fear, memories, questions about our lives, or simply the unfamiliar experience of being completely present with ourselves.
Our first instinct may be: Quick. Find something to do. 😂
The phone suddenly becomes fascinating. The kitchen apparently requires immediate reorganization. Perhaps this would be an excellent time to investigate what everyone we have ever met is doing on social media.
Anything but sitting here with ourselves.
But if we remain for a little while, something can begin to shift. We may discover that silence isn't empty.
There is someone here. Us.
Learning to enjoy your own company changes relationships too.
When we are afraid of being alone, we may tolerate things we otherwise wouldn't. We may hold onto relationships simply because losing them feels more frightening than remaining in them. We may overgive, overaccommodate, abandon our boundaries, or make another person's presence responsible for our sense of security.
But when we begin feeling safe within ourselves, our relationships can become more honest. We can choose people because we genuinely want them in our lives—not simply because we are afraid of life without them.
There is a beautiful difference between “Please stay because I cannot bear being alone” and “I love having you in my life, and I also know how to be with myself.”
One is driven primarily by fear. The other leaves room for choice.
Solitude can become a relationship with yourself.
Perhaps we begin very simply: having coffee alone without immediately reaching for the phone, going for a walk, sitting somewhere beautiful, listening to music, writing, cooking something we enjoy, travelling somewhere, watching the sunset, or allowing ourselves to experience something without needing another person beside us to validate that the moment matters.
At first, it may feel unfamiliar. Then gradually, something wonderful can happen.
You begin enjoying your own company.
You hear yourself more clearly. You discover what you actually like, what you think, what you need, what feels peaceful, and what no longer fits. And perhaps you realize that being alone doesn't automatically mean you've been abandoned.
Sometimes it simply means: You're spending time with yourself.
And then connection changes.
We don't stop loving people. If anything, perhaps we become more capable of loving them freely. We can miss someone without losing ourselves, want companionship without believing we are incomplete without it, enjoy solitude without withdrawing from the world, and receive love without asking another person to fill every empty place within us.
This is not about becoming so independent that we need nobody. That can be another form of protection.
Wholeness isn't isolation. It is being able to belong deeply with others while also belonging to yourself.
And perhaps that is one of the quietest signs of healing:
One day you find yourself alone. Nothing dramatic has happened. There is no great breakthrough. You make your coffee and sit down. The room is quiet.
And suddenly you realize—you don't feel lonely.
You feel peaceful. You feel present. You feel at home.
Because somewhere along the way, being alone stopped meaning that someone was missing.
You discovered that you were there too.
WHEN GROWTH CHANGES YOUR FRIENDSHIPS AND RELATIONSHIPS
One of the things we don't always talk about when we talk about personal growth is what it can do to our relationships.
We imagine growth as something positive. We become more self-aware, heal old patterns, develop stronger boundaries, learn to trust ourselves, and become clearer about what we want and what we no longer want.
All wonderful things.
But then something unexpected can happen.
Some of our relationships begin to feel different.
The friendship that once felt completely natural may no longer feel the same. The conversations may change. The things that once connected us may no longer be enough.
Perhaps we notice that a relationship depended on us always being the listener, the fixer, the accommodating one, the person who never said no, the person who kept the peace, or the person who was always available.
And then we change.
We begin saying what we actually think. We establish boundaries. We stop explaining ourselves endlessly. We don't automatically rescue or participate in the same dynamics.
And suddenly, the relationship has to adjust to a version of us it hasn't met before.
Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't.
Growth changes the roles we are willing to play.
Relationships develop patterns. Without consciously deciding it, people can fall into roles with one another. One gives while the other receives. One pursues while the other withdraws. One fixes while the other needs fixing. One keeps everyone happy. One is allowed to have the difficult emotions while the other absorbs them.
These roles can become so familiar that we mistake them for the relationship itself.
Then one person changes, and the whole system feels it.
Perhaps you say no where you once said yes. Perhaps you stop taking responsibility for another person's emotions. Perhaps you express a need you've always suppressed. Perhaps you no longer laugh at something that actually hurts you. Perhaps you simply stop making yourself smaller in order to keep the relationship comfortable.
The other person may welcome the change. They may grow with you. They may become curious. The relationship may actually become deeper because it is now built on greater honesty.
But sometimes the change creates resistance.
People who were comfortable with our old boundaries may not immediately celebrate our new ones.
That doesn't automatically make them bad people. Change can be uncomfortable for everyone. They are adjusting too.
Not every changing relationship needs to end.
This is important. Personal growth should not become: I'm evolving. Therefore, everyone who challenges me must go. 😂
Sometimes the most conscious thing we can do is stay, communicate, listen, repair, allow another person time to understand what has changed, and learn how to relate to one another differently.
Healthy relationships aren't relationships without discomfort. They are relationships in which there is enough mutual respect to work with discomfort without requiring either person to abandon themselves.
And sometimes a relationship that feels temporarily unsettled becomes stronger because both people are willing to grow.
But some relationships do change permanently.
Not every relationship is meant to remain exactly as it began. People change. Circumstances change. Values change. Lives move in different directions. And sometimes we realize that what once connected us no longer does.
That can bring grief. Even when we know a relationship has run its course, we can still miss what it was. We can love someone and recognize that we no longer belong in each other's lives in the same way. We can appreciate what a friendship gave us without forcing it to continue forever.
An ending does not erase the value of what came before it.
That took me time to understand. We sometimes judge a relationship by whether it lasted. But perhaps longevity isn't the only measure of meaning.
Some people walk beside us for decades. Others accompany us through one particular season. They teach us something. We teach them something. We share laughter, difficulty, experiences, conversations, and memories. And then life moves.
There doesn't always have to be a villain. Sometimes there are simply two people whose paths have changed.
Growth can also reveal which relationships are truly strong.
This may be one of its greatest gifts. The relationships that allow us to become more fully ourselves often deepen.
We discover who can celebrate our growth without feeling threatened by it, who can hear a boundary without interpreting it as rejection, who can disagree without withdrawing love, who can tell us the truth, who allows us to tell ours, and who doesn't require us to remain an earlier version of ourselves in order to belong.
Those relationships are precious.
And perhaps we begin showing up differently in them too—less from obligation, fear, or the need for approval, and more from choice, presence, mutuality, and love.
And sometimes we need to look at ourselves too.
Growth isn't only about noticing how other people respond to our changes. It also asks: Am I allowing the people I love to change?
That's a harder question.
Do I still expect someone to be who they were five years ago? Have I assigned them a role they are trying to leave? Do I interpret their new boundaries as rejection? Am I giving them the same freedom to evolve that I want for myself?
Because conscious relationships require room for both people to become.
Perhaps that is the deeper invitation. Not: Who do I need to remove from my life now that I've grown? But: Which relationships can become more honest as I become more honest with myself?
Some will deepen. Some will need new boundaries. Some may become more distant. Some may end. And some will surprise us by becoming something far more beautiful than they were before.
Growth changes relationships because growth changes us.
And perhaps the goal isn't to keep every relationship exactly as it has always been. It is to learn how to love others without abandoning ourselves—and how to allow the people we love the freedom to grow too.
The strongest relationships don't require us to remain who we were when they first found us. They make room for who we are becoming.
VICTIM OR SAVIOUR? OR NEITHER?
Sometimes we move through relationships playing roles we don't even realize we've accepted.
One of them says: “I have no power here.” Another says: “It's my job to fix this.”
They may look completely different. But both can keep us disconnected from something essential: our own responsibility, boundaries, and inner power.
I think of these as the victim and saviour patterns.
And before going further, an important distinction needs to be made. Being harmed does not mean someone has a “victim mentality.” People experience betrayal, abuse, injustice, loss, manipulation, discrimination, and circumstances they did not choose.
Acknowledging that something happened to us is not the same as building our identity around powerlessness.
Healing never requires pretending we weren't hurt. It asks a different question: What power belongs to me now?
When the victim pattern takes over
Sometimes, after enough painful experiences, we begin to believe that life simply happens to us. Other people determine how we feel. Circumstances determine whether we can move forward. Someone else needs to change before we can be okay.
We may repeatedly think: Why does this always happen to me? There's nothing I can do. They made me feel this way. I'll be okay when they finally change.
There may be very real reasons we learned to feel powerless. Perhaps there was a time when we genuinely were powerless, especially in childhood. Children cannot simply leave difficult environments, establish adult boundaries, or understand the emotional patterns surrounding them. So helplessness may once have reflected reality.
But adulthood can offer something childhood couldn't: choice.
Not control over everything or immunity from pain, but increasing choice over what we tolerate, how we respond, what meaning we give an experience, where we place our boundaries, and what we do next.
Healing can involve discovering: Something happened to me—but what happened does not get to make every decision for me forever.
And then there is the saviour
This one can be harder to recognize because it often looks like kindness. We help, support, listen, solve, step in, take responsibility. We become the person everyone can depend on.
And helping others is beautiful. But sometimes helping quietly crosses into rescuing.
We begin taking responsibility for things that actually belong to someone else: their emotions, choices, consequences, healing, and happiness.
We may believe: If I don't help, I'm selfish. If they're unhappy, I need to fix it. I know what they need. They can't manage without me.
And somewhere along the way, caring becomes carrying. Those are not the same thing.
Why do we become rescuers?
Sometimes rescuing gives us a sense of purpose. Sometimes being needed feels like being loved. Sometimes we learned early that keeping other people happy helped keep us safe. Sometimes focusing on everyone else's problems protects us from looking at our own.
And sometimes we simply have enormous hearts and haven't yet learned that compassion needs boundaries too.
That realization can be uncomfortable because the saviour role often comes with very good intentions. But constantly rescuing someone can unintentionally communicate: “I don't trust you to handle your own life.”
It can also prevent the other person from experiencing the consequences, choices, struggles, and discoveries through which growth happens.
We cannot do another person's healing for them, no matter how much we love them.
The two roles can find each other
This is where relationships become particularly interesting. A person who feels powerless may naturally gravitate toward someone who feels responsible for fixing things.
One says: “Please save me.” The other says: “Finally. A job.” 😂
For a while, the arrangement may even seem to work. One feels cared for; the other feels needed. But eventually resentment can develop.
The rescuer becomes exhausted: Why do I have to do everything? The person being rescued may become increasingly dependent—or begin resenting being controlled. And both people can become trapped inside roles that prevent genuine equality.
Sometimes they may even switch roles. Human relationships do enjoy keeping the plot interesting. 😂
What if we choose neither?
This is where something much healthier becomes possible. Instead of “Someone needs to save me,” we begin asking: “What belongs to me here?”
And instead of “I need to save you,” we ask: “How can I support you without taking over what belongs to you?”
That is a profound shift.
We can have compassion without rescuing, offer support without controlling, listen without immediately solving, and love someone without taking responsibility for their entire emotional world.
And when we are struggling ourselves, we can ask for help without surrendering responsibility for our lives. Receiving support is not weakness.
Healthy interdependence means we can lean on one another while still recognizing that each person has their own inner work to do.
Sometimes love sounds different than we expect
Love can say: I'm here. I believe in you. I'll listen. How can I support you? And sometimes: “I trust you to figure this out.”
That last one can be surprisingly difficult for a rescuer. There may be an internal emergency meeting. 😂 But shouldn't we DO something?
Maybe.
Or perhaps our job is simply to remain present while another person discovers their own strength.
Because empowerment is very different from rescue. Rescue says: “I'll do it for you.” Empowerment says: “I'll stand beside you while you discover that you can.”
Healing brings us back to ourselves
Whether we recognize more of the victim pattern, the saviour pattern, or a little of both, the goal isn't to judge ourselves. It's to become aware.
We can ask: Where did I learn this? What does this role give me? What am I afraid would happen if I stopped playing it? Where am I giving away my power? Where am I taking responsibility that doesn't belong to me?
And then: What would a healthier relationship look like here?
Perhaps neither victim nor saviour. Neither helplessness nor control. Neither You are responsible for me nor I am responsible for you.
But two people standing beside one another saying: I care about you. I will support you. And I respect the strength and responsibility that belong to each of us.
That isn't abandonment. It isn't selfishness. It is relationship without self-abandonment.
And perhaps one of the deepest forms of love is learning when to help—and when to step back far enough for another person to discover:
I can do this.
THE GLASSES THAT REMINDED ME HOW TO SEE
Last October, I bought a pair of glasses that everyone admired. More importantly, I loved them.
I fell in love with the frames the moment I walked into the store. Ironically, I had gone there looking for red frames. Red is my colour, or so I thought. But then I saw this beautiful combination of turquoise and brown, and suddenly I forgot all about red.
For the entire year, I received compliments about those glasses. People would tell me how sharp they looked, how well the colours suited me.
And then, last month, while driving in Poland, I sat on them.
Yes. I actually sat on my glasses. 😂
I see quite well at a distance without them, so I had placed them on top of my head. At some point, they slowly slid toward the back of my head. I forgot they were there, and eventually… I squished them. One side broke off.
Yesterday, I went back to the optician to ask whether they could be repaired or replaced. Repair was not possible. Replacement, however, was.
There was a beautiful new pair waiting for me. The design was slightly different, but the same lovely colours were there. I was happy. My glasses were coming back.
Then came the paperwork.
The gentleman helping me was older. It was toward the end of the day, almost evening, and he seemed to be having some difficulty with the details. Replacing my glasses involved several steps, including finding out who my insurance provider was.
He opened a large book containing records of my previous purchases and needed to find the correct date. Then I had to dictate the insurance number to him, one digit at a time. He wrote very slowly, asked me to repeat myself, and mixed up an “H” with an “8.”
And for just a fraction of a second, a thought crossed my mind: This is taking a long time.
I was aware of the hour. I had an hour-long drive ahead of me, and my cat had already been alone for several hours. It would have been so easy to become impatient.
But then I thought about my mother.
I remembered the last letter she sent me from across the ocean. Her eyesight was no longer what it had once been, and her handwriting—impeccable throughout her entire life—had become shaky.
That was when, for the first time, I felt a deep sadness and concern. I knew she was changing. Still, she could understand. She could talk. She could cook, to an extent. She could look after her home. She could give me advice.
A couple of years later, dementia took over.
And suddenly, something shifted inside me.
I looked at the gentleman in front of me differently. Not through the eyes of the person who was waiting for something to be done, but through the eyes of compassion.
Who knows what his story is? Maybe he knows that some things are no longer as easy for him as they once were, but he still wants to work. Maybe he needs the income. Maybe he has someone at home who depends on him. Maybe his work gives him a sense of purpose and connection to other people. Maybe he simply enjoys being useful.
Maybe none of these things are true.
The truth is, I don't know. And that is precisely the point.
We rarely know what another human being is carrying. We see a few minutes of someone's life and can so easily create an entire story about them, but there is always so much more beneath the surface.
So I smiled.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Take your time. Would you like me to repeat the numbers again?”
And something changed. He relaxed. Then, almost automatically, his mind recognized that an “H” had no place among the numbers. He crossed it out and wrote an “8” himself.
I smiled again. The moment passed.
Later, he went somewhere in the store while I continued the payment process with a young woman. And then I realized it was getting dark.
I would have to leave my new glasses at the store and come back the following day to pick them up. I could drive without them during the day, but at night it would be difficult.
Oh well, I thought. I resigned myself to it. At least I was getting a beautiful new pair.
And then, suddenly, he appeared.
In his hands were my glasses. My new glasses.
“Put them on,” he said. “See if they fit.”
I stared at him. “Oh my God. You put them together? Now? So soon?”
“I couldn’t let you drive without glasses,” he replied.
And he looked so proud of himself.
The confusion was gone. His posture was straight. His face was different. He looked accomplished. He looked helpful.
He looked like himself again.
And in that moment, I realized something.
Perhaps I had not needed to learn compassion yesterday. I already knew it. It is something I try to carry with me every day.
But sometimes, life reminds us of things we already know. We get tired. We become distracted. Our own worries become loud enough that, for a moment, we forget to look beyond them.
Yesterday, I was reminded.
I was reminded that every person has a story. That someone's slowness does not tell us their worth. That confusion does not make someone less capable, less valuable, or less deserving of patience. That we never know what someone is going through—or what keeps them going.
And most importantly, I was reminded that how we choose to see another person can change an ordinary interaction into a moment of dignity for both of us.
As I felt my gratitude, he modestly smiled and said, “Well, if you insist, you could leave a review…”
“Oh, I definitely will!” I laughed. “Thank you. This was the best service ever.”
And as he was finishing his shift, I added, “Have a wonderful rest of your evening.”
I drove home wearing my new glasses. But somehow, I felt that I had received something much more valuable than a new pair of frames.
I had been reminded to see—to pause, to wonder, to give someone the benefit of the doubt, and to remember that there is always a human being behind the behaviour we see.
Because perhaps we could all use a reminder from time to time:
Before judging someone, try looking at them through the eyes of compassion.
You may discover a story you could never have imagined.
And you may discover that the world looks a little different through those glasses.
WHEN BEING “NICE” GETS IN THE WAY OF HONEST RELATIONSHIPS
Many of us were taught from an early age to be “nice.”
Be agreeable. Don't upset anyone. Keep the peace. Don't make things difficult.
So we learn to smile when we're hurt, say yes when we want to say no, avoid uncomfortable conversations, and sometimes silence ourselves to protect the feelings of everyone around us.
On the surface, this can look like kindness.
But there is an important difference between being kind and keeping the peace at the expense of our own.
When we continually suppress what we feel, those feelings don't necessarily disappear. They may become resentment, frustration, emotional distance, exhaustion, or a quiet sense that we are disappearing inside our own relationships.
And eventually, the very behaviour we believed was protecting the relationship can begin damaging it.
A healthy relationship needs truth as well as kindness.
Real kindness doesn't require us to abandon ourselves in order to care for another person. Sometimes kindness says: “I care about your feelings, but I also need to be honest about mine.” Sometimes it says: “I love you, but this doesn't work for me.” Or simply: “I can't do that right now.”
And sometimes kindness asks us to have the conversation we've been avoiding because pretending everything is fine is no longer honest.
That can feel uncomfortable, especially if we've spent years believing that conflict means something is wrong. But disagreement isn't necessarily disconnection. A boundary isn't necessarily rejection. And saying no isn't necessarily unkind.
In fact, honesty expressed with respect can create greater intimacy, because the other person is finally relating to who we actually are rather than to the version of ourselves we've created to keep everything comfortable.
Consider the difference.
Being nice might sound like “Sure, I'll help,” while internally feeling overwhelmed and resentful. Kindness might say: “I wish I could help, but I don't have the capacity right now.”
Being nice might mean avoiding a difficult conversation because we don't want someone to be upset. Kindness might mean having that conversation with honesty, respect, and compassion because the relationship matters enough to tell the truth.
Being nice might mean continually giving because we are afraid that saying no will disappoint someone. Kindness allows us to give because we genuinely want to—and to recognize when we need to receive as well.
The behaviour may look similar from the outside. The difference is what is happening within us.
Sometimes the fear underneath “nice” needs healing.
This is where the pattern becomes deeper. If saying no feels frightening, why? If someone's disappointment immediately makes us feel guilty, what are we afraid it means? If disagreement feels dangerous, where did we learn that?
Perhaps somewhere along the way, we learned that being agreeable helped us maintain connection. Perhaps approval made us feel safe. Perhaps conflict in our childhood felt overwhelming, so we learned to avoid it.
Perhaps being helpful became one of the ways we learned to feel valued.
There is no need to judge those patterns. They may once have served us. But adulthood gives us the opportunity to ask whether we still need them.
One question can be especially revealing:
Am I doing this from love—or from fear?
Not every reluctant yes is people-pleasing, and not every uncomfortable conversation needs to happen immediately. Human relationships are nuanced.
But if we repeatedly notice ourselves saying yes while meaning no, remaining silent while resentment grows, or sacrificing our needs because we're afraid of another person's reaction, there may be something asking for our attention.
Kindness includes us too.
This may be the part many of us forget. We can care deeply about another person's feelings without making ourselves responsible for preventing every uncomfortable feeling they experience.
Someone can be disappointed by our boundary, and the boundary can still be appropriate. Someone can disagree with our decision, and we can still honour it. Someone can misunderstand us, and we don't always have to abandon ourselves in order to convince them otherwise.
At first, this may not feel peaceful at all. A new boundary can bring guilt. An honest conversation can make us nervous. A sincere no can feel much harder than the automatic yes we've practiced for years.
But underneath that discomfort, something important is changing:
We are learning that we can remain loving without leaving ourselves behind.
And that changes relationships. Because the goal isn't to become less caring. It is to become more authentic in the way we care—to give without resentment, speak without cruelty, listen without disappearing, set boundaries without punishment, and love without self-abandonment.
Perhaps mature kindness isn't about keeping every relationship comfortable.
It is about creating relationships in which both people are allowed to be real.
STAY CONNECTED
Ready to create more inner safety, self-trust, and joy in your life? Stay connected for reflections, practical tools, and new ideas to support your journey. Begin with The 5-Minute Reset—your free guide, including a version for children and teens.