Boundaries Are an Act of Love

What if a boundary isn't about controlling someone else's behaviour, but becoming clearer about your own?

I used to think boundaries were lines we drew around other people.

You can't do this.

You need to stop doing that.

If you do this again, then I'm done.

They sounded firm.

Decisive.

Empowered.

And sometimes, of course, very necessary.

But I'm beginning to understand boundaries differently.

Because there's a problem with building a boundary entirely around what another person needs to do: It still leaves our wellbeing dependent on their behaviour.

You need to change so I can feel better.

You need to understand so I can feel heard.

You need to behave differently so I can be okay.

And perhaps sometimes they will.

Sometimes people listen. They learn. They apologize. They change. They meet us differently.

But sometimes they don't. And then what?

Maybe a boundary begins somewhere else.

Not with:

Here's what you need to do.

But with:

I understand that I cannot control what you choose. Here's what I'm going to choose for myself.

That feels very different.

A boundary isn't a punishment.

I think this is where boundaries sometimes get confused with consequences designed to make another person change.

Fine. If you're going to do that, then I'm going to do this.

We've probably all been there. The boundary becomes a weapon. A withdrawal.

A way of demonstrating exactly how hurt or angry we are.

And occasionally, if we're being particularly sophisticated about it, we call it protecting our peace while secretly hoping the other person notices how magnificently we're protecting it. 😂

But a boundary isn't really about teaching someone a lesson.

It's about clarity.

What can I give?

What do I need?

What am I willing to participate in?

What can I no longer keep carrying?

Where does responsibility for another adult end and mine begin?

Those questions don't require someone else to agree with the answers.

And that may be one of the hardest parts.

We can spend years trying to get people to understand.

If I explain it better, maybe they'll finally hear me.

If I find the right words, maybe they'll understand why this hurts.

If I show them how much I'm carrying, maybe they'll offer to carry some of it.

If I become quieter.

Louder.

Kinder.

Firmer.

More patient.

Less emotional.

More emotional.

Maybe then something will change.

There is something deeply human about wanting the people we love to understand us.

Of course we want that. We want to be seen.

We want our experience to matter. We want the people closest to us to care when something hurts.

But there can come a point when explaining becomes another form of waiting.

Waiting for someone else's understanding before we give ourselves permission to respond to what we already know.

Maybe they don't understand.

Maybe they understand perfectly and simply don't agree.

Maybe they're doing the best they can.

Maybe they're unwilling to do anything differently.

Maybe they need time.

Maybe they'll surprise us.

We don't always know.

But eventually the question may need to shift from:

How do I get them to understand?

to:

What do I need to understand about myself?

Boundaries require us to tolerate other people's disappointment.

This one is particularly uncomfortable.

Because many women have spent a lifetime becoming extraordinarily skilled at preventing other people from being disappointed.

We anticipate. Accommodate. Smooth things over. Say yes before anyone has to ask twice.

Carry the emotional temperature of the room. Make things easier. Keep everyone happy.

And then we decide we're going to have boundaries.

Wonderful.

Except apparently other people are sometimes not delighted when we stop organizing ourselves around their comfort. 😂

Someone may think you're selfish.

Someone may be hurt.

Someone may disagree.

Someone may tell you that you've changed.

Someone may prefer the version of you who always said yes.

And the temptation is to interpret their discomfort as evidence that our boundary is wrong.

But perhaps their disappointment is simply theirs to experience.

That doesn't mean we stop caring. It doesn't mean we become cold. It doesn't mean we never compromise. Love requires compromise. Relationships require consideration.

Human beings inconvenience each other. That's part of belonging to one another.

But there is a difference between considering someone else's feelings and making ourselves responsible for preventing them.

That distinction can change a lot.

A boundary can be soft and still be real.

I think I once imagined strong boundaries as hard edges.

No.

Never.

Done.

Cut off.

Door closed.

And sometimes safety absolutely requires that kind of clarity.

But many of the boundaries we navigate in ordinary relationships are quieter.

I'm not available for that tonight.

I can't take this on.

I need some time before we continue this conversation.

I love you, and I don't agree.

I'm willing to help with this part, but I can't carry all of it.

I understand that this is what you want. It isn't what I want.

I'm going to spend some time doing something that matters to me.

I'm not going to keep having the same conversation in the same way.

None of those statements requires anger. None requires a dramatic exit. None requires us to stop loving someone. Sometimes a boundary is simply the moment we stop abandoning ourselves in order to maintain harmony.

Soft does not mean unclear.

Returning to yourself doesn't always mean leaving.

This matters enormously to me.

There is a particular story we sometimes tell women about self-discovery. She realizes she has lost herself. She chooses herself. She leaves the job. Ends the relationship. Moves somewhere beautiful. Starts over.

And sometimes that is exactly the story.

Leaving can be brave. Ending something can be necessary. Starting again can be an extraordinary act of self-respect.

But it isn't the only way a woman returns to herself.

Sometimes she returns inside the life she already has.

She stops waiting for someone else to make her happy and begins creating more of what makes her feel alive. She takes herself seriously. She develops interests that belong to her.

She makes plans. Builds friendships. Travels. Creates. Rests. Asks for what she wants.

Stops volunteering for every responsibility. Allows other adults to carry what belongs to them.

She becomes less consumed with managing everyone else's experience and more curious about her own.

And something changes.

Maybe the relationship changes with her.

Maybe it doesn't.

Maybe she eventually makes bigger decisions.

Maybe she doesn't.

But she is no longer postponing her own life while she waits to discover what someone else will do with theirs.

I think there is enormous power in that.

Love and self-abandonment are not the same thing.

This can be difficult to recognize because self-abandonment often looks remarkably like love.

It looks like helping.

Supporting.

Sacrificing.

Understanding.

Forgiving.

Being flexible.

Being dependable.

And all of those things can absolutely be expressions of love.

The question is what happens to you inside them.

Can you give without disappearing?

Can you support someone without assuming responsibility for their choices?

Can you forgive without pretending something didn't hurt?

Can you compromise without being the only person compromising?

Can you love someone and still tell the truth about your own experience?

Can you remain connected to another person without disconnecting from yourself?

Those questions aren't accusations.

They're invitations.

Because perhaps the goal isn't to become less loving.

Maybe it's to become more honest about what love can sustainably ask of us.

Sometimes the boundary is with ourselves.

This may be the least glamorous boundary of all.

There is no dramatic conversation.

No declaration.

Nobody else may even know it happened.

It's simply the moment you decide:

I'm going to stop checking.

I'm going to stop asking the same question hoping for a different answer.

I'm not going to volunteer for this again.

I'm going to stop explaining a decision I've already made.

I'm not going to cancel my plans because someone else didn't make theirs.

I'm going to let another adult solve the problem that belongs to them.

I'm going to stop interpreting someone's mood as an assignment.

That last one could probably be its own fucking Practice. 😂

But these private boundaries matter because they return our attention to the only behaviour we actually control.

Our own.

Boundaries don't guarantee outcomes.

This is another thing I think we need to say.

A boundary isn't a magic formula for creating the relationship you want.

You can communicate beautifully and someone may still misunderstand you.

You can ask clearly and hear no.

You can stop over-functioning and discover that nobody immediately rushes in to fill the gap.

You can make more room for yourself and find that someone preferred you when you took up less.

You can change your part of a pattern and discover that the relationship itself has to change.

Boundaries don't guarantee that everything stays comfortable. They don't guarantee that everyone stays. They don't guarantee that you stay.

What they can do is give you better information.

What happens when you stop carrying both sides?

What happens when you say what you mean?

What happens when you let someone respond without immediately rescuing them from their response?

What happens when you make room for yourself and watch what the relationship does with that room?

You learn something. About them. About the relationship.

And perhaps most importantly, about yourself.

A Sacred Pause

If there's a relationship or situation where you're feeling stretched, resentful, responsible or simply tired, you don't need to decide anything right now.

Just notice.

Ask yourself:

What am I carrying here?

What part of this actually belongs to me?

What am I hoping someone else will change so that I can feel okay?

And perhaps:

What could I choose for myself even if they don't change at all?

That last question can be uncomfortable.

Stay with it.

Not because you need to act immediately.

But because sometimes clarity begins when we stop building our choices around the person we hope someone else will become.

Maybe boundaries are how we stay in relationship with ourselves.

I don't think boundaries are walls.

At least, they don't always have to be. Sometimes they're doors. A way of saying:

You can be you.

I can be me.

And we can discover what is possible between us when neither of us has to disappear.

That isn't always neat.

It isn't always painless.

And it certainly doesn't guarantee that every relationship will continue exactly as it has.

But perhaps that's not the purpose. Maybe the purpose of a boundary isn't to control the relationship. Maybe it's to create enough honesty inside it that we can finally see what the relationship actually is.

And from there, we choose.

Not from punishment.

Not from fear.

Not from an attempt to control someone else.

But from a clearer understanding of what belongs to us.

Our needs.

Our choices.

Our responsibility.

Our life.

Because loving another person should not require us to leave ourselves behind.

And perhaps one of the most loving things we can sometimes say—to another person and to ourselves is:

I love you. And I am still responsible for me.

And what else?

Cheryl MacLean

Founder, Sacred Soul

Sacred Spaces for Transformation