How Old Traumas Can Cause Self-Doubt in Destructive Relationships

“Sometimes people wound us because they’re wounded and tell us we’re broken because that’s how they feel, but we don’t have to believe them.” ~Lori Deschene

Age and healing don’t make you invulnerable to moments that can bring you back to the kind of trauma you experienced as a child. It doesn’t mean that you’re broken, but that there is still an opportunity for more healing to take place. Nothing is inherently “wrong” with you.

I experienced a great deal of trauma in my twenties, actively reliving sexual abuse I had gone through in my childhood, and found myself in and out of psych wards to contain my grief. After I turned thirty, I thought this was my life now and that I would never find peace, especially since I didn’t have a great reference point for it.

It wasn’t psychiatry or therapy that saved me, but rather creating a spiritual relationship with myself. Integrating things like meditation, prayer, and living a life of service to others is what helped pull me out of that vortex. It’s been three years now, and I still haven’t stepped back into a mental hospital. Also, I’ve been able to stay afloat financially, have friends, and accomplish many goals.

However, I met someone earlier this year, who I’ll call Brian. He was unlike any man I had ever met because he embodied extreme strength while simultaneously being extremely raw. When I met him, I thought, “This feels familiar.” He seemed a lot like me. And I wanted to get to know this man more deeply. Was he a wounded soldier, like me?

After we spent the first night together being romantic and soft, he did everything he could to sabotage our connection. He withdrew, started being hot and cold, and started bringing up other women to try to get me jealous, which he later admitted was to test me.

I could tell that he didn’t like that I could really “see” him. Energetically, I could feel his pain, and I supported him as he vented about his trauma. And although I didn’t technically want to “save” him, I felt relieved that I met someone who embodied the same painful duality that I did. It made me feel some camaraderie. It made me feel tender toward him.

Despite our chemistry being amazing, he did not regard me in the same way. After his charm wore off, he became exceedingly mean, repeating a pattern of ignoring me, coming back, and eventually, apologizing and making me feel special. Any time there was a rupture in our dynamic, he would blame me for it. In short, he was incredibly critical of me while I continued to make excuses for him.

However, I had so much self-doubt and self-hatred left over from my multiple hospitalizations in my twenties that I thought I was, in fact, the problem—and that I was solely the problem. At this point, I was still indoctrinated with the belief that enduring pain was part of real love.

I began to regress in this dynamic, falling into self-destructive patterns from my childhood, like disordered eating and cutting, and I started feeling depressed and anxious.

When I communicated this to him, he made it clear that I was on my own with all the feelings this dynamic brought up in me. But because of my old wounds, I felt like I had to keep earning his love back to be okay. It was absolutely miserable.

Eventually, I saw that Brian could never face or acknowledge the fact that although we had a connection –and he kept coming back—he couldn’t sustain intimacy because of what it brought up in him. Instead, he framed it as though I’d done something that “pushed” him away or turned him off.

I’m sure that many times, I was a turn-off by being clingier than most women my age would be. But it did not justify his abusive actions. Also, I now see that his inconsistency and withdrawal only increased my need for reassurance.

Now, I am not a judgmental person because of what I’ve been through, but at some point, I had to see his mistreatment for what it was. He would punish me with the silent treatment for weeks on end, name-call, and use leverage, like money, to try to maintain the upper hand.

Eventually, no matter what tenderness I felt in the beginning, I had to let him go. The conditions of our dynamic had become exceedingly clear: I had to be destroyed or minimized for him to thrive.

There was one night when he said something particularly awful to me—something about my “insides being broken”—that shocked me because of the inherent cruelty of the comment. You know, knowing I had been through lots of sexual abuse. When I was visibly upset over this, he framed it as me being too sensitive. And because of where I had been before, I doubted myself.

I shouldn’t have. That is a horrible thing to tell someone. But it took me so long to realize he wasn’t a good person because of the constant self-doubt I had creeping in from my childhood.

After we parted ways, I knew I’d have to work on this to avoid situations like this in the future.

Was I a perfect partner? Hell no. Could I work on refining some of my own relationship habits? Yes. But did I deserve the abuse and silent treatments? Absolutely not.

Here are some tips to remember who you are when your toxic shame from childhood clouds your judgment.

1. Remember, that in many cases, you are attracted to people because of what they invoke in you, sometimes good, sometimes bad. If they bring up a lot of shame versus feelings of love, you may still have work on yourself to do.

2. It may seem that going through hell with someone else at least affords you company, but sometimes the quality of that company can really derail you. Be discerning of who you decide to go through spiritual warfare with.

3. Even if you are a bit unhealed or a bit broken (you’re human, after all), that should never excuse someone giving you the silent treatment or extorting you with money.

4. You are better off holding off on finding a meaningful relationship until you have a clear sense of who you are and what you will and will not tolerate.

5. Endurance of pain does not equal love. It equals pain. Choose wisely!

These are principles I wish had been clearer to me as I fought through this murky journey back to myself. My biggest regret was that I stayed in this relationship as long as I did just because of all the previous self-doubt and self-hatred that was weighing on me.

Life is short, and we don’t have to tolerate cruelty just because we still have healing to do. We don’t have to be fully healed to deserve kindness and emotional safety.

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About Monica Viera

Monica Viera is a published poet and creative entrepreneur, best known as the author of Journey Back to the Stars. She blends lyrical storytelling with themes of healing, growth, and self-discovery, inspiring readers through emotionally rich and imaginative work worldwide.

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How to Know When You’re Truly Ready to Forgive

“Forgiveness is a painful and difficult process. It’s not something that happens overnight. It’s an evolution of the heart.” ~Sue Monk Kidd

Sometimes I hear the word “forgiveness” and I cringe.

I’ve been wrestling with this all year because I realized something really uncomfortable: When I look back at those moments where I felt betrayed, in most instances, I wasn’t a victim of other people’s bad behavior—I was a willing participant.

For years, I stayed in one-sided relationships and situations that asked me to shrink and conform to other people’s expectations. I gave everything and got crumbs (and this includes some family).

I accepted criticism of my loving actions without expressing how I felt.

I walked on eggshells, hoping to minimize the behavior that hurt me, losing myself in the process.

Still, I “performed” forgiveness after every slight, every disappointment, and every broken promise. I thought that made me evolved. It actually made me complicit in my own erosion.

Getting past this has required a lot of commitment and patience, and I’m still working on it. So I’ve been reflecting a lot about what forgiveness actually is, what it isn’t, and what it requires.

For years, I thought forgiveness meant being the bigger person. It meant letting things go quickly, moving on, and not holding grudges. But I didn’t realize that my version of forgiveness was just another form of self-abandonment.

I was performing forgiveness while my nervous system was still screaming. And this was a pattern.

For example, someone close to me used to sidestep my feelings, blow through my boundaries, and use any double standard to ensure there were exceptions to the rules for their behavior. And I wouldn’t take up space. I’d let them take and take.

I’d justify their behavior because I wanted to take the high road, because there was an expectation to forgive quickly and move on. So I did. I chose not to be difficult. But my body kept the truth.

Your body knows when someone is being hurtful. For me it was a stomach drop, a feeling of panic, and a sting in my chest. Those were sensations demanding attention, but I silenced them with justifications.

I was saying “I forgive you” because I thought it was the loving thing to do, while my body was still trying to process what had happened.

What I know now is this: forgiveness is a process that only works when the body feels safe enough to soften. And where there is real love, there’s space and grace, and no one forces you to just get over it.

Forgiveness cannot be rushed,. It has to happen organically, and it goes far beyond repeating an affirmation while your nervous system is in survival mode.

Before we can forgive, we need to acknowledge the truth of what happened. Even if we never share the truth with the person who caused the pain. Sometimes it lives in a letter you never send. Sometimes you scream it into a pillow at 2 a.m. What matters is that it gets expressed.

But even before truth can be spoken, something else usually rises—anger.

Anger needs a voice.

We often silence, minimize, or spiritualize away our rage. But trying to forgive without tending to that anger is like putting a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. It doesn’t heal; it festers.

Anger needs expression. But expression is not projection. This is between you and the anger and not a license to burn down everyone around you.

One practice that helped me was learning to give anger a contained space. I’d set a timer for fifteen minutes and let it speak. Write it out. Breathe through it. Let it move without letting it drown me.

When the timer ended, I’d step back.

And when anger arose at inconvenient moments, I didn’t bypass it. I acknowledged it: I hear you. I feel you. We have an appointment later.

Because anger has layers. Sometimes it takes more than one appointment. But when it’s tended to—without indulgence and without denial—healing begins naturally.

Only then can truth be spoken without re-injuring yourself. Only then can the body soften.

Look at your side of the street first.

Something that accelerated this process was looking at my own role in adult relationships. When I looked back on instances where I felt betrayed or disappointed, I examined my side first.

What did I allow? What didn’t I express? What was I trading in the name of love?

In most cases, my choices weren’t conscious. I acted based on what I knew then. I realized I couldn’t shame past versions of myself. Just like a parent can’t shame a child who needs safety, you’re reparenting the parts that needed guidance. This is where you validate yourself and see yourself.

What really cracked the code for me was speaking to the part of me that was hurt. Going into the experience of who I was then and getting to know this version intimately. I told her: I see you. I know what happened. Here’s what we could do differently. I think it’s time we let this go, and I’m going to be there to let it go with you. What do you think?

The material from childhood, when you were innocent and unable to defend yourself, is much harder to forgive. Still, whether the hurt came from childhood or adulthood, the process is the same.

Don’t give your power away to people who can’t hold it.

As the layers shed, something changes. Not because someone apologized. Not because there was validation. But because you finally see yourself.

Eventually, maybe, curiosity shows up. You start to wonder why people do what they do. That understanding doesn’t erase your experience. It gives you wisdom. It teaches you discernment.

You learn that not everyone has the capacity to love you well, and you stop pretending otherwise. You honor yourself accordingly.

And perhaps one morning you wake up and notice there’s no longer a sting. Less charge. More neutrality. You remember what you learned without reliving the wound.

That’s forgiveness.

Forgiveness is a gift to yourself.

Once your body gets its energy back, once it remembers its truth, something powerful shifts. You don’t have to make it happen.

You do the work of honoring your anger, speaking your truth, and protecting your boundaries. And then one day, forgiveness arrives. Not because you were good enough, but because your nervous system finally felt safe enough to let go.

And maybe, after you’ve gone through it all, you arrive at what Danielle LaPorte calls “bless and release.” But only after the brutal work of honoring what hurt.

Forgiveness is not an affirmation.

Not a performance. Not a moral obligation.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the person who hurt you takes accountability and trust can be rebuilt. That’s the Hollywood ending. It happens, but not always.

And sometimes forgiveness looks like this:

Your heart still chooses love, but from across the street. With peace in your own home.

And that is enough.

Because the rage no longer consumes you. Because you honored yourself.

That, too, is forgiveness.

So if you’re standing in the thick of it right now, if forgiveness feels impossible or like something you’re being pressured into, let me tell you: you’re not failing, and you don’t have to listen to anyone who tries to rush you.

Heal first. Give anger its due. Speak your truth. And find an identity outside your pain.

When it’s ready, forgiveness will come. Not because you willed it, but because you made space for it.

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About Christine Rodriguez

Christine Rodriguez is a spiritual life coach dedicated to helping others transform beliefs, thoughts, feelings, and behaviors that no longer serve them so they can create a life that’s aligned with their true desires and capabilities. To work with her, please visit miraculousshifts.com. You can find her on Instagram @miraculousshifts_christy.

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30 Reminders for Sensitive People Who Feel Drained, Ashamed, or Judged

“Highly sensitive people are too often perceived as weaklings or damaged goods. To feel intensely is not a symptom of weakness, it is the trademark of the truly alive and compassionate.” ~Anthon St. Maarten

There are some words that get painfully etched into our memories as if with a red-hot poker. For me, growing up, those words were “you’re too sensitive.”

I often caught this phrase in the fumbling hands of my shame after someone chucked it at me with callousness and superiority as a means to justify their cruelty.

They may have said something vicious or condescending in private or told embarrassing stories or outright lies about me in public.

Either way, the results were the same: I’d take it personally, get emotionally overwhelmed, then either explode in anger or sob.

But it wasn’t just cruelty that evoked my sensitivity, and I didn’t cry only when obviously provoked.

Well-meaning people, who generally treated me with kindness, would gently remind me I’m too sensitive when I overanalyzed the smallest things other people did—like taking a while to call me back or “making a face” after I said something I thought sounded stupid.

Or they might pull out this sage observation of my character when I took criticism to heart, struggled to let go of something painful, or experienced someone else’s pain deeply and intensely, as if it were my own.

It was as if the whole world could see that there was something glaringly wrong with me. But I couldn’t seem to change the way I perceived, experienced, and reacted to life.

Little did they know how deep this sensitivity ran, far below the surface.

They had no idea that my mind was a web of constant reflection pertaining to not only my own experiences, but also the suffering of everyone around me.

They had no idea how frequently I felt drained and overstimulated, and that just showing up to a crowded or loud environment took monumental strength (which I had to muster often growing up in a big Italian family).

They had no idea how often I felt stressed, anxious, and jumpy because my nervous system was so dialed up.

And I had no idea there was a biological explanation for all of this. It wasn’t until years later—decades, actually—that I found the term “highly sensitive person” and finally understood that my brain actually processes information and reflects on it more deeply than non-HSP brains.

Over the years, I’ve learned to accept that some of my traits and behaviors are just part of being a highly sensitive person.

I’ve learned that HSPs:

• Are highly perceptive and empathetic
• Feel everything deeply
• Absorb other people’s emotions and can tell when something’s wrong
• Pick up on subtleties other people might miss
• Have heightened intuition
• Easily feel drained or overwhelmed in loud, chaotic, or otherwise overstimulating environments

I’ve also learned that some of my former behaviors were responses to my sensitivity, for example:

• Overanalyzing things other people said or did
• Internalizing judgments as truth
• Judging myself for my needs instead of honoring them
• Drinking to numb myself in over-stimulating environments instead of simply avoiding them or making efforts to ground myself
• Ignoring my intuition about people or situations that weren’t good for me
• Taking on everyone else’s pain instead of setting boundaries

Though I am by no means an expert on navigating life as a highly sensitive person, I know I’ve come a long way over the years. I still experience the world and my emotions intensely. But I feel less like a rag doll in a roaring tornado and more like a deeply rooted tree that may lose some of its leaves but can ultimately endure one hell of a storm.

I’ve learned to take good care of myself, honor my needs, and worry less about what other people think of me. And I generally don’t judge myself as harshly as I once did.

It helps that I not only have a toolbox for self-care—including meditation, walks in nature, and long baths—but also an arsenal of lessons to remember whenever my sensitivity gets the better of me.

If you can relate to any of what I’ve shared, and if you frequently feel drained, ashamed, or judged, perhaps these reminders may be helpful to you, now or some time in the future.

When You Feel Drained

1. You are only responsible for your own emotions. You can’t take away everyone else’s pain, and if you could, you’d be robbing them of the chance to grow.

2. You don’t need to fix anyone else’s problems. Just listening is enough—but you can only listen for so long before it gets to be too much.

3. You don’t need to put yourself in environments that overstimulate you, and choosing to do something different doesn’t make you weird or any less fun.

4. It’s not worth forcing yourself to do something if you know you won’t enjoy it and you’ll end up feeling drained.

5. You can choose to listen to your instincts instead of your anxiety. If you feel you need to leave but you’re worried about how you’ll be perceived, focus on the voice that knows what’s best for you.

6. Other people and external situations can only drain you if you let them. You have the ability and right to set boundaries at any time.

7. It’s not selfish to take care of yourself. As the saying goes, you can’t pour from an empty cup.

8. Sleep isn’t a luxury; you need to get sufficient rest to handle the many parts of life that are emotionally exhausting.

9. The most important question you can ask yourself, at any time, but particularly when you feel overwhelmed, is “What do I need right now?”

10. It doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. Even five minutes of a calming practice, like deep breathing or yoga, can make a huge difference.

When You Feel Ashamed

11. You can’t control or change that you have a highly sensitive nervous system, and you can’t help that you process everything deeply and experience emotions intensely. You wouldn’t feel ashamed of your hair or eye color, so why feel ashamed of something else you were born with?

12. Sensitivity isn’t a weakness; it’s the source of your understanding, compassion, depth, and creativity—which means it’s actually a strength.

13. There is nothing “wrong” with you, and you’re worthy of love and respect just as you are.

14. You are not alone. According to psychologist Elaine Aron, who wrote the book on HSPs, highly sensitive people make up fifteen to twenty percent of the population.

15. If someone else shamed you for your sensitivity, or for coping with it ineffectively because you didn’t know any better, you didn’t deserve it.

16. Your shame comes from the story you’re telling yourself about yourself—and you can change that story to be more compassionate at any time.

17. You don’t have to “fix” your emotional intensity. You simply need to observe your emotions so you’re less likely to get caught up in them.

18. You are not what you do. If you act in a way you regret when you’re feeling emotionally overwhelmed or overstimulated, you can simply apologize, forgive yourself, learn from the experience, and move on.

19. Crying isn’t something to be ashamed of. It actually helps release stress and pent-up emotions, and it’s a sign of immense courage if you let yourself cry instead of resisting vulnerability.

20. If you sit with your shame instead of trying to numb it, it will eventually move through you. No emotion lasts forever.

When You Feel Judged

21. For every person who might judge you, there’s someone else who’d love, value, and accept you just as you are.

22. You don’t need everyone to understand or like you; you just need to understand and have compassion for yourself.

23. What other people think of you is their business, and their opinions and judgments can only hurt you if you let them.

24. Just because someone else says you’re “too sensitive,” that doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong or you need to change.

25. If other people don’t value you, they’re missing out on the chance for a deep, meaningful relationship with someone who’d always be there and would never hurt or judge them.

26. If someone judges you, it’s a reflection of where they are in their life and development, not who you are as a person.

27. Just because someone minimizes your feelings, that doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid.

28. You have the right to end a conversation at any time if someone dismisses your feelings or violates your boundaries.

29. It’s okay to walk away from a relationship if someone consistently devalues, disrespects, or hurts you.

30. Just because you think someone is judging you, that doesn’t mean they are. Their silence, distance, or mood may have nothing to do with you.

—

Of course, it’s far easier to jot down a list of lessons than it is to remember the most useful one in the moment when it can be most helpful. I’ve struggled to recall these insights many times, both in the distant and recent past. But it’s not about perfection; it’s about awareness and practice, as is everything in life.

Read this, print it, put it somewhere you’ll see it often, and perhaps you can etch these ideas into your memory, as deeply but not as painfully as the criticisms you’ve likely heard over the years.

And if you only take one idea into your day, let it be this:

We are not defective. We don’t need to get harder or grow a thicker skin. We don’t have to “man up” or “suck it up” or stop caring so deeply.

The world doesn’t need more guarded people, weaponized by apathy and bitterness. The world needs more people who aren’t afraid to reflect, to feel, and to love with hearts so open they overflow with empathy and kindness.

The world needs us sensitive souls to see beauty others might not see and create beauty where it might never exist if we hadn’t filtered life through the kaleidoscope of our own unique perspective.

But we can only give the best of ourselves if we take good care of ourselves, even if other people have different needs; if we value ourselves, whether others do or not; and we remember that judgment is inevitable, but it doesn’t have to control or define us.

**This is an older post I shared years ago that was popular on the site. Since I’ve been a little drained and behind recently, I decided to share it again both to benefit those who haven’t read it before and to take a little off my plate!

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About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She started the site after struggling with depression, bulimia, c-PTSD, and toxic shame so she could recycle her former pain into something useful and inspire others to do the same. You can find her books, including Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and Tiny Buddha’s Worry Journal, here and learn more about her eCourse, Recreate Your Life Story, if you’re ready to transform your life and become the person you want to be.

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How I Live My Life Now, After 10 Days of Silence

“If there is no peace in the minds of individuals, how can there be peace in the world? Make peace in your own mind first.” ~S. N. Goenka 

I recently completed my third Vipassana meditation course.

There is a moment at the beginning of the course when you surrender your phone (and receive it back at the end). That transition feels deeply symbolic. The outer world goes quiet, not all at once, but unmistakably. And only then do you realize how much static you’ve been carrying.

I never want it back at the end. Never.

Ten days with no phone. No books. No journaling. No eye contact. No conversation. No external input at all.

It’s a rare kind of devotion in a world that thrives on distraction. Not an escape from life, but a turning toward it—without buffers, without numbing, without the usual exits.

As my third course, I went in genuinely curious how it would meet me this time. I’ve just come through one of the most significant seasons of my life—a season of shedding, reorientation, and deep internal reckoning. I wondered if the experience would feel familiar… or entirely new.

The structure is always the same. Wake-up bell at 4:00 a.m. Meditation from 4:30 a.m. until 9:00 p.m.—about ten hours a day. Breakfast at 6:30: simple oats and fruit. Lunch at 11:00L nourishing, vegetarian, and honestly delicious. Then fasting until the next morning (new students receive fruit at teatime; old students do not).

I never felt hungry. An empty stomach is surprisingly conducive to meditation, and when you’re sitting most of the day, your body doesn’t need much.

Each evening, we watch a discourse taught by S.N. Goenka—a Burmese businessman turned meditation teacher who brought Vipassana to the West and established hundreds of centers worldwide. Though he passed more than a decade ago, his voice still guides every course. The instructions, the teachings, the humor—unchanged.

I love the purity of that. The technique hasn’t been personalized or diluted. It remains universal. Timeless. Intact.

What Vipassana Actually Is

Vipassana is an embodied meditation practice rooted in direct sensation.

You move your awareness systematically through the physical body, observing sensations exactly as they are—pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral—without craving what feels good or resisting what feels uncomfortable.

This is how the mind is purified at its deepest layer. Not through thinking. Through sensation.

We are practicing equanimity. Non-reaction. Peace in the midst of experience.

And this is how we learn not to react in our lives outside the meditation hall.

As you sit long enough, the body stops feeling solid. Science tells us we are made of trillions of subatomic particles, and Vipassana makes that experiential. I knew my hands were folded in my lap, but I couldn’t feel them. At times, my body felt as though it disappeared entirely.

Seeing What’s Actually There

Vipassana doesn’t just show you transcendence.

It shows you everything.

You get a front-row seat to your inner world, with no escape. And when there’s nowhere to go, what’s inside comes forward—whether you like it or not.

Then there was my inner shit-disturber. Very much alive.

No one smiles. No one makes eye contact. There are rules for everything. Silence. Stillness. Structure. And my mischievous part had a field day.

I imagined flicking people’s ears in the meditation hall. Pushing someone into the snow outside. Stealing a woman’s carrot cake when she walked away for tea and pretending nothing happened.

It kept me entertained. And oddly… regulated.

There were also long stretches of total distraction.

I wrote an entire book in my head. Remembered every person from elementary school—siblings included. Replayed my entire student-teaching placement. Planned future conversations. Solved problems that didn’t need solving.

And then there was the harder seeing.

My ego, fully on display. Greed. Judgment. Selfishness. Lack of tolerance.

The kinds of things we don’t like to admit live inside us.

But here’s the truth I trust deeply now: we cannot change what we refuse to see.

Vipassana doesn’t ask you to fix these parts. It asks you to notice them. To stop pretending they aren’t there. To meet them with awareness instead of shame.

And in that seeing—steady, non-reactive, honest—something begins to soften.

Why Understanding Isn’t Enough

We don’t suffer because we don’t understand. We suffer because we react.

We react in craving—wanting more and more of what feels good, chasing pleasure, grasping for certainty, comfort, affirmation.

And we react in aversion—resisting what feels uncomfortable, avoiding pain, numbing what we don’t want to feel, tightening against dis-ease.

This constant push and pull—toward what we want and away from what we don’t—keeps us restless. Agitated. Never quite at peace.

Mindset work eventually hits a ceiling because we are so much more than our mind.

We have a body. A nervous system. A soul. A lineage. A history carried in our tissues.

And don’t get me wrong—I love understanding. I’m obsessed with it. Understanding myself, others, the world. But understanding has its limits.

Nothing changes just because we know more.

Vipassana teaches something radically different: the middle way. Not suppression. Not indulgence. But presence.

It gives us space. Peace. Choice. An embodied way to practice not reacting. To experience life as it is, without being yanked around by desire or fear.

This is the true essence of peace.

Meeting the Shadow (and the Burper)

Case in point: the woman sitting directly behind me.

On day one, I noticed she had a burping issue. I thought, surely this is just today. It was not. For ten days straight, I had a front-row seat to her digestive system—gurgles, gas bubbles, belches during every single sit.

Clearly, she was uncomfortable. Clearly, her body was struggling.

And yet… my reaction shocked me.

I didn’t feel mild irritation. I saw myself smothering her with a pillow. I wrote vicious mental notes. I felt rage—pure, unfiltered intolerance.

I remember thinking, That’s inside of me??

Then there was the quiet competitiveness of meditators.

A woman sat beside me—calm, still, seemingly unbothered. In my mind, I made her a saint. Look at her, I thought. So equanimous. And here I am, a total asshole.

I’d sneak a peek (we’re meant to keep our eyes closed). She looked peaceful. Untouched. I wished I was more like her.

On day ten, when silence lifted and we could finally speak, I asked her how she dealt with it.

She laughed. She was going bananas too.

I went to the teacher on day eight to ask how to work with it. She went on day seven.

There’s a strange intimacy that forms when you suffer silently together. You meditate beside the same people. Eat beside them. Share bathrooms and silence and space.

You’ve never spoken—and yet you feel bonded.

You feel like you know each other. Because, in some way, you do.

Sitting With Pain, Learning Impermanence

Vipassana challenges you.

After each course, I declare it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And yet, I leave elated, clear, deeply myself—and certain I’ll return.

It’s not hard for the reasons people assume. Not the 4 a.m. wake-ups. Not the silence. Not even the fasting.

It’s hard because you sit with yourself. Your mind. Your pain. And you don’t turn away.

For seven days, I sat with a dense mass of tension along the right side of my back—creeping into my shoulder, along my ribs, down to the base of my rib cage. Throbbing. Aching. Persistent.

The instruction was simple: observe. No stories. No fixing. No resisting.

On the eighth day, the sensation vanished.

Gone.

What had once taken up so much space simply dissolved. There was room again—room for energy to move, for ease to return.

Vipassana teaches impermanence—not as a concept, but as lived truth.

Everything is always changing. Sensations arise. They pass. Again and again.

Pain is not fixed. Pleasure is not permanent. Nothing stays.

Seeing this experientially changes how we relate to everything.

Equanimous witnessing is deeply healing. Mental and physical pain move through the body and mind—without analysis, without therapy, without effort.

We are not fixing ourselves. We are learning to stay.

And in staying—steadily, patiently, without reaction—something profound unwinds.

This Is Not a Retreat

I had to stop calling Vipassana a retreat.

There are no hammocks. No umbrella drinks. No beach novels. This is a course.

And you come to work.

If you want comfort, this isn’t it. If you want transcendence without discomfort, this isn’t it. If you want to bypass your humanity, this will disappoint you.

And yet, the course is offered freely. Entirely run on service. Old students volunteer their time. Donations from those who’ve benefited keep the centers running. There are over 250 permanent centers worldwide, all run the same way.

Non-religious. Non-sectarian. Universal.

After the Silence

The real practice begins after you leave.

You don’t walk out enlightened. You walk out steadier.

I noticed how I related differently to pain, desire, and irritation. The greed I saw in myself softened me—and moved me toward generosity. Not as an idea, but as action.

In the weeks that followed, I bought a meal for a man who asked for help—something I would have previously avoided. I reorganized an offer in my work to include donations to a local food bank. I signed up to volunteer.

Vipassana didn’t make me think about these things more. It made it time to do them.

At a family gathering, I found myself with someone who has triggered me most of my life. This time, I didn’t react. I felt more compassion. Even love.

No big conversation. No confrontation. Just the ability to be different in their presence.

Enlightenment is a worthy goal. I hope we all get there—whether in this lifetime or another.

But perhaps we can also settle for more love, not less. A quieter nervous system. A little more space. A little less reactivity. A little more kindness toward what arises.

Sometimes peace doesn’t arrive as fireworks. Sometimes it arrives as the absence of reaction.

And from there, everything changes.

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About Andrea Tessier

Andrea Tessier is an author, Self Trust Coach and Internal Family Systems (IFS) Practitioner who helps ambitious, high-achieving women build self-trust, release perfectionism, and step into authentic leadership. With over six years of experience blending psychology and spirituality, she guides clients to reconnect with their true Self and live with clarity, peace, and wholeness. Download her free Self Trust at a Crossroads Guide.

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Why Protecting Your Energy Isn’t Selfish or Shameful

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” ~Ian Maclaren

A friend recently told me a story about her mother that stayed with me.

They walk together some evenings around her mom’s apartment building—part exercise, part ritual. Her mom doesn’t enjoy small talk. When they pass people in the building, she usually keeps her eyes forward. There’s one woman in particular who always says, “How are you?” Years ago, her mom would respond. Now she doesn’t. She keeps walking.

My friend felt conflicted. Part of her understood. Another part felt uncomfortable. She said, “Sometimes saying ‘I’m fine’ costs nothing. It’s just being cordial.”

Without really thinking, I replied, “It costs energy. And she’s tired.”

And then I heard myself. I wasn’t really talking about her mom. I was talking about me. I was tired.

Seeing Myself in the Story

As my friend continued talking and adding more context, I felt the realization land. I could see how much of myself I had projected onto her story.

Sometimes I don’t make eye contact with people when I’m out running—not because I’m unfriendly or above anyone, but because I want my body to move without being pulled outward. I want to stay inside myself.

Sometimes I’m short with a customer service representative on the phone—not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because I don’t have the capacity for the emotional padding. The small talk. The softening meant to help me take a “no” more easily. I don’t want to be buttered up. I want the information. I want to be done.

And sometimes—this is the part many middle-aged women who have always been caretakers feel ashamed to admit—I no longer want to keep doling out my energy like it’s candy. Energy is a commodity, just like money, and many of us are operating in a deficit. There is simply nothing left.

Energy Is Not Infinite—It Is Allocated

Energy is not infinite in any system—biological or otherwise.

In physics, energy is conserved, not endlessly generated, and in living systems it must be carefully allocated. The nervous system runs on finite resources, and prolonged emotional labor, vigilance, and over-responsibility draw from that same limited supply. When those reserves are overdrawn for too long, the body doesn’t ask permission before conserving; it simply does.

Social engagement, emotional buffering, and responsiveness are often the first things to be scaled back—not as a moral choice or relational statement, but as a biological necessity. Conservation in these moments isn’t selfishness; it’s the system obeying its limits.

For many of us, especially those with codependent caretaking patterns learned in childhood and reinforced by society, energy has often been spent reflexively rather than consciously. We learned early to scan, anticipate, soothe, and accommodate. We learned to say “I’m fine” even when we weren’t. We learned that being pleasant, responsive, and emotionally available helped keep things stable.

Over time, that adds up.

When you’ve spent years overfunctioning—emotionally, relationally, practically—even small interactions carry a cost. Eye contact. Tone modulation. Politeness rituals. Emotional buffering. These things aren’t wrong, but they aren’t free.

Eventually, the body starts making decisions before the mind fully understands what’s happening. And when that happens, people often mistake depletion for a personality change.

When Withholding Isn’t a Boundary—It’s Triage

Here’s an important nuance, especially for those of us who are used to giving.

This isn’t the polished, empowered version of boundaries we often talk about. This isn’t clarity born of abundance. This is triage. Sometimes saying no—energetically or emotionally—isn’t about preference. It’s about consequences that have finally caught up with the body, even if the mind has yet to follow.

If I don’t conserve, my health pays. My kids pay. My work pays. And the few people I’m closest to don’t get a full version of me.

Research on burnout shows that chronic emotional labor and over-responsibility often lead to emotional withdrawal as a protective response—not because people care less, but because their nervous systems are depleted (Maslach & Leiter, 2001).

If you’re in this place and you feel guilty, the choice you’re making to conserve is not wrong. It’s that the conditioning of your mind hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart and gut already know. For many women, giving once meant safety. Availability meant belonging. So even when the supply inside you is gone, the reflex remains. What you may not realize is that you’re trying to protect what’s left of yourself.

That doesn’t make you cold. It means your nervous system has reached its limit.

The Risk of Judging Character Instead of Capacity

When we judge someone’s character without accounting for their capacity, we miss what’s really happening. We moralize exhaustion and call it impolite, cold, selfish, or rude. We label survival responses as flaws. Not everyone who goes quiet is hardening. Not everyone who disengages is indifferent. Not everyone who stops performing is making a statement.

Some of us are simply protecting the last places where our energy still matters most.

So to the person who feels guilty even when they have nothing left—the one whose body has started saying no before their mind fully understands why, the one who has learned, often the hard way, that giving a little to everyone can mean being empty where it matters most—if this is you, you’re not failing at kindness. You’re not becoming someone unrecognizable.

You’re responding to years of overfunctioning with the only signal your system has left. And that deserves understanding, not judgment.

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About Allison Briggs

Allison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, writer, and speaker specializing in helping women heal from codependency, childhood trauma, and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward self-trust, boundaries, and authentic connection. Allison is the author of the upcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Codependent Heart of a Woman and shares reflections on healing, resilience, and inner freedom at on-being-real.com.

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Why Trying to Be Good Enough Kept Me Feeling Empty

“The opposite of belonging is not isolation—it’s fitting in.” ~Brené Brown

One of my earliest memories comes from kindergarten.

My mom had bought me a new pair of navy-blue corduroy pants for an event at school. We didn’t get new clothes often, so this felt important. But what stayed with me wasn’t the pants themselves or the event—it was the way I felt wearing them.

I remember standing there, already tense, afraid that the other kids would think I looked stupid. Afraid they wouldn’t want to play with me. Afraid that being different, even in something small, would mean I didn’t belong.

I didn’t have words for it back then, but the feeling was clear: if I stood out, something was wrong with me. And if something was wrong with me, I wasn’t good enough.

That feeling has followed me quietly into everything since.

As I grew up, I never knew who I wasn’t good enough for or what standard I was supposed to meet to finally earn my place. So instead of questioning the feeling, I tried to solve it.

I tried becoming the funny guy in school. That earned laughs but also trouble with teachers. Then I shifted toward being popular—obsessing over my appearance, my energy, how I came across. Later, I became the bodybuilder who didn’t care about anything except the gym. After that, the lone wolf with perfect routines, perfect grades, a perfect body, and a life that looked disciplined and impressive from the outside.

Each version of me felt like a serious attempt. Each one came with hope that this would finally be the thing that made me feel okay. None of them did.

Every identity worked for a while, until it didn’t. The effort of maintaining something that wasn’t truly me grew heavier over time. And when it became too much, the whole thing would collapse.

After each collapse, I’d numb myself. In the early years, it was food. By my teens, alcohol and drugs joined in. The feeling underneath—this sense of not being allowed to simply exist—was crushing.

The irony was that the more I tried to escape the feeling, the worse it became. Each new version of myself had to be more extreme, more convincing, more airtight than the last. And each collapse hit harder.

Eventually, I started to believe that the problem wasn’t what I was doing—it was who I was. That no matter how hard I tried, I would always come up short. That maybe some people were simply not built to be good enough.

I tried to get help. Therapists helped me understand where the feeling might have come from: losing my dad early, being bullied, unstable circumstances growing up. Their explanations made sense. They gave me things to try.

But even with that understanding, the feeling didn’t change. I still felt empty. Still felt like I was failing some invisible test. Insight explained the pain, but it didn’t loosen its grip.

In my mid-twenties, I met my girlfriend. In the beginning, I felt lighter and more secure. For a while, the feeling of not being good enough faded into the background. Then I started to really love her.

And with that love came a familiar fear. I became terrified that she would see who I really was and leave. That she’d realize I was a fraud. That this relationship would become just another entry on a long list of proof that I wasn’t worth staying for.

That fear seeped into everything. My studies suffered. My work felt heavy. I held on to the few anchors I still had—eating relatively well, staying active—because they gave me something solid to cling to.

Then we moved to Thailand.

The move was exciting on the surface, but underneath it, I was exhausted. I didn’t admit it to myself at the time, but I had been pretending for a long time—pretending I could handle the stress, the uncertainty, the pressure to keep functioning.

Once we arrived, something in me gave out.

Without consciously deciding to, I let go of the last routines that had kept me stable. The feeling of not being good enough came on stronger and faster than ever. Within weeks, I was convinced my girlfriend would leave the moment she met someone better, which felt like almost anyone. I was certain my work would discover I didn’t belong in my role and replace me with someone who actually deserved it.

Over time, that fear became my new normal.

I stopped wanting to do anything. Thinking felt hard. Getting out of bed felt impossible. People around me grew frustrated, watching me withdraw and waste time. From the outside, it probably looked like laziness or lack of discipline.

From the inside, I was using everything I had just to keep pretending I didn’t know what I believed about myself. I stayed like that for almost a year.

Then I went home for a short vacation.

One day, sitting alone, I looked back at the year I’d just lived. And something finally became impossible to ignore. Almost every decision I had made—my job, where I lived, the way I spent my time—had been made for someone else. Not a specific person, but an imagined audience. A version of life that looked acceptable. Respectable. Safe.

I hadn’t chosen those things because I wanted them. I’d chosen them because I thought they proved I was worthy of existing.

As I sat with that, I started seeing the same pattern everywhere. Growing up, I’d stayed friends with people I didn’t really like. I’d dated people I wasn’t truly aligned with. I’d studied and worked in fields that never felt right. Even the way I treated people was shaped by who I thought I needed to be, not who I was.

I remembered something small from childhood: I used to love reptiles. I even had snakes. But once I learned that people thought kids with snakes were weird, I sold them. Not long after, I became afraid of snakes myself.

That was the pattern. Again and again, I gave up pieces of myself in exchange for approval. And every time I did, the feeling of not being good enough tightened its grip.

What slowly became clear was this: the feeling might have been born from loss and difficulty, but I was the one keeping it alive. By constantly trying to live up to what I thought others wanted, I never lived in a way I could respect myself.

I started to see that I wasn’t failing because I was incapable, but because I kept shaping my life around being approved of. I didn’t suddenly feel better after realizing this. Nothing was cured. But something shifted.

I started making changes that didn’t look impressive from the outside. I left a job I hated. I went back to working on something that actually mattered to me. I returned to taking care of my health—not to perfect myself, but to give my days structure and enjoyment again.

A lot of people disapproved. I earned less. My choices looked risky. I was encouraged to take a more traditional path.

But for the first time, my life started to feel like mine.

The feeling of not being good enough didn’t disappear. It still shows up. Sometimes as anxiety. Sometimes as panic. But it no longer runs my life. It’s moved from being the driver to being background noise.

I can sleep at night. I look forward to waking up. And when I’m unsure about a decision, I no longer ask whether it will make me look acceptable. I ask whether it moves me toward a life I can stand behind—and who I’m really doing it for.

For a long time, my biggest fear was that I wasn’t good enough. Now, my biggest fear is living a life that isn’t mine.

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About Paul Hagen

Paul Hagen writes about personal growth, direction, and building a life that’s aligned with what actually matters. Through his work at Hagen Growth, he explores sustainable ways of changing how we live, work, and make decisions - without shaping our lives around approval. You can find more of his writing at hagengrowth.com.

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