Content Note: This piece looks closely at the ways we abandon ourselves to keep other people comfortable. It might hit a little close to home, so take your time with it.
One day not so long ago, I was sitting on the edge of my bed when my phone buzzed.
The afternoon sun was coming through the blinds, stretching bright lines across the floor. A basket of laundry sat beside me waiting to be folded.
The message itself wasn’t a big deal.
Someone was asking for a favor.
The sort of thing I would normally agree to without giving it much thought.
My first reaction was immediate.
I’ll do it.
That’s what I always did.
But something was different this time.
I felt this heaviness settle low in my stomach.
Not anxiety exactly.
More like exhaustion finally getting tired of being ignored.
I stared at the screen. I put my phone down, picked it back up a few minutes later, and read the message again.
What wasn’t obvious was why a simple text message felt so conflicting.
It took me a long time to understand that my reaction had very little to do with the person who sent the message.
It had everything to do with where I learned that keeping other people happy mattered more than listening to myself.
When I was little, I spent a lot of time watching my mother.
I could hear her car pull into the driveway and feel my stomach drop before she even came through the door.
Sometimes I’d be sitting at the kitchen table with my homework in front of me, pretending to focus on the page while listening for clues.
I listened for the sound of the front door, the way she dropped her handbag onto the counter, how hard she closed a cupboard, whether her footsteps were fast or slow.
I was always trying to figure out who was walking through the door.
Because once you’ve been hurt enough, you start looking for warning signs.
You start believing that if you’re careful, quiet and useful enough, maybe you can stop it before it starts.
I became very good at making myself invisible.
I stayed in my room more. Kept my opinions to myself. Tried to get through the day without becoming the reason she was angry.
Sometimes I'd hear her car in the driveway and rush to finish whatever chore I hadn't done. I'd wash a dish, put something away, anything to make it look like I'd done what I was told. Anything to give her one less reason to be upset.
Most of the time, it didn't make much difference.
I remember sitting at the table so quietly my legs would go numb underneath me.
I’d think through what I wanted to say before I said it, changing words in my head, lowering my voice and trying to avoid getting it wrong.
If my father was home, I’d find excuses to stay in the same room as him. I’d sit a little closer. Stay at the table a little longer than I needed to.
The knot in my stomach loosened when he was around.
When you’re a child, you don’t think of it as survival.
You think it’s normal.
It never occurs to you that other children aren’t living this way.
Those habits become part of you.
The problem is that children grow up.
But the things they learn to survive often stay.
Years later, there I was, sitting on the edge of my bed staring at a text message and feeling that same knot in my stomach.
Not because the person asking for help had done anything wrong.
Because some part of me still believed my job was to keep everyone else comfortable.
I sat there for twenty minutes arguing with myself.
The longer I sat there, the clearer it became.
I wasn’t struggling because I didn’t know what I wanted.
I was struggling because I did.
Eventually I typed:
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that for you right now.”
Then I stared at the message before pressing send.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I could feel that familiar panic rising. The feeling that I'd done something wrong. That somehow I was about to disappoint someone.
I pressed send anyway.
A few minutes later they replied.
They understood.
And that was it.
Nothing happened.
The room looked exactly the same.
The sunlight was still stretched across the floor.
And yet something felt different.
Lighter.
It wasn’t just relief that they understood.
It was relief that I finally listened to myself.
That for once I didn’t automatically hand my needs over to someone else.
I wish I could tell you I’ve mastered this now.
I haven’t.
There are still moments when I hear myself agreeing to things before I’ve stopped to think.
Still days when guilt arrives faster than my own needs do.
But I notice it sooner now.
I recognize that pull to make myself responsible for everyone else’s feelings.
And these days, I try to give myself a little space before answering.
I'll make a cup of herbal tea, fold a few towels, and walk away from my phone long enough to hear my own thoughts.
The answer doesn’t always change.
But at least it belongs to me.
Maybe that’s what healing looks like.
Not becoming someone who never feels guilty or never struggles.
Just learning that my needs deserve a seat at the table too.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
The comments below are a place for honest conversation. If you’re doing your own slow unlearning, I’d love to hear from you.
Debra 💛
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Debra King is a writer, award-winning poet, and trauma-informed creative with training in somatic therapy, exploring emotional healing, chronic pain, childhood trauma, and the hard work of rebuilding yourself after survival. Beautiful Things Grow Here is her space for personal essays, poetry, and honest reflections on the body, grief, healing, and becoming softer with yourself.
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