The Boundaries We Don't Talk About

A quick coaching note: Before we get to this week’s newsletter, I wanted to send a quick update about coaching. Many have asked, so I am sharing here. My coaching calendar is currently full, and I’ll be opening just a few spots in September. If you’ve been thinking about working together, you can book a free discovery call here to see if it's a good fit.

When we think about boundaries, most of us think about saying no.

We picture turning down an invitation, protecting our calendar, or telling someone that something doesn’t work for us. Those are important boundaries, and truthfully, I don’t struggle much with them. I’m comfortable saying, “I’m unavailable,” or “I can’t make that work.” I’ve learned to protect my time, and I don’t carry much guilt around doing it. The place I’ve realized I still have work to do is somewhere much quieter.

Energetic boundaries.

I didn’t really have language for this until recently. I just knew that when someone I loved was going through something difficult, I went through it too. If one of my kids was struggling, if a close friend was hurting, or if a family member was carrying something heavy, I could feel it in my own body almost immediately. My nervous system shifted. My mind started searching for answers. I found myself wanting to make it better as quickly as possible.

At first, I thought that was simply compassion. But I’ve started wondering if there are times when what feels like compassion is actually something else. Sometimes, I think it’s our discomfort with watching someone we love struggle.

When that happens, we rush to fix, reassure, rescue, or solve—not necessarily because it’s what the other person needs, but because it helps relieve the discomfort we feel as we witness their pain.

That realization changed something for me. I’ve begun thinking about energetic boundaries as the ability to stay deeply connected to someone without unconsciously taking on their experience as my own.

For me, it starts with acknowledging something that’s simply true about who I am: I have a sensitive nervous system. I absorb other people’s emotions quickly, especially when I love them. I don’t see that as a flaw. It’s one of the reasons I connect so deeply with people. But sensitivity without boundaries eventually becomes overwhelm.

The second shift has been asking myself a simple question whenever I notice myself getting pulled into someone else’s emotional experience:

How am I here to serve this person?

Because the answer is almost never by becoming as dysregulated as they are.

If their fear becomes my fear, or their anxiety becomes my anxiety, I’ve lost my ability to be the steady presence they’re looking for. The support they need isn’t another overwhelmed person standing beside them. They need someone who can remain grounded enough to hold space while they find their footing.

As parents, we do this all the time. We mistake carrying our child’s emotions for supporting them. But our children don’t need us to join them in their fear. They need us to become the calm place they can return to. The same is true for the people we love outside of parenting. Our steadiness is often far more healing than our solutions.

Sometimes that means I literally visualize protecting my own energy. I’ll imagine a gentle force field around me—not to keep people out, but to remind myself that I can witness someone’s experience without absorbing it.

Other times, I’ll notice myself becoming emotionally flooded and simply step away for a minute. I’ll get a drink of water, take a few breaths, or walk into another room before coming back. Not because I’m avoiding the situation, but because I’m resetting my own nervous system so I can return with intention instead of reaction.

I’ve also started paying attention to my first instinct when someone I love is struggling. Do I immediately want to fix it? Solve it? Convince them everything will be okay? Those impulses aren’t wrong. Most of them are born from love. But they also tell me something about where my own nervous system is.

The more I practice staying regulated instead of reacting, the more I trust that I’ll know what to say when it’s actually time to speak. I don’t have to rush into the discomfort. I don’t have to fill the silence. I don’t have to make their experience disappear.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person is simply our steady presence.

I’ve realized that energetic boundaries aren’t about caring less.

They’re about caring without carrying.

It’s allowing someone else’s experience to belong to them while remaining fully available to walk beside them.

Ironically, the more I’ve learned to protect my own energy, the more present I’ve become for the people I love. Not because I feel less, but because I’m no longer asking my nervous system to hold what was never mine to carry.

Love always,

Albiona

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