When Boundaries Become a Love Letter to Yourself
For many of us, boundaries were never taught—they were survived. I learned, quietly and often painfully, to shape-shift: to be good, agreeable, accommodating.
I learned to dim my light to keep the peace.
To silence my discomfort in the name of love.
To say yes while my body screamed no – but I wasn’t listening to my body – I didn’t even hear the no.
I abandoned myself, again and again, calling it kindness – I thought I was being kind to the other person.
This became my normal.
Then, through my own therapy as a client, I learned that boundaries are not rejection.
They are recognition.
They say: I am a person. I have needs. I am not your projection.
I am not here to fulfil your fantasies, your fears, or the roles you cast me in.
I am not your saviour, your scapegoat, your mother or your punching bag.
I don’t have to be liked by you.
To set a boundary is to peel away the masks others have placed on me—and the ones I’ve learned to wear just to belong.
It is to say:
I have needs, limits, and longings that are real.
I am not here to automatically create comfort for you, at the cost of my own. Occasionally I might make a choice to do that, but it will be my conscious choice.
When I let go of being who others want me to be, I risk disappointing them.
And yet, that was where I began to meet myself.
I had to face being a disappointment!
Boundaries define the sacred space where one soul ends and another begins.
They are the architecture of self-respect—the scaffolding on which real intimacy can grow.
A boundary says:
This is what I can give without resentment.
This is what I need to feel safe.
This is where I will no longer disappear.
Boundaries are not the end of love—
they are its fiercest guardians.
They do not sever connection; they make it honest.
They do not punish—they protect.
And yet, in the beginning, boundary work felt brutal.
I risked being misunderstood.
I risked losing something – though in fact that had never been truly safe anyway.
The safety I thought I saw them was pseudo safety – it was an illusion.
I risked meeting the silence of those who did not want to meet me. And in my family of origin silent disapproval and sulking had been a powerful tool that had been used to create compliance in me.
But every time I spoke my truth, even with a shaking voice,
I stitched together my integrity.
Each no became my lifeline.
Each limit, each boundary, a love letter to my future self.
Eventually, something shifted.
Something rooted.
And in a quiet, resolute moment, I realised:
I am no longer available for what harms me.
Not from others.
And not from myself.
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