This past year has been really eye-opening for me. There’s no doubt that starting over again has been really challenging, and I’ve spent a lot of time in survival mode just trying to figure out how to do life on my own. Jason and I truly grew up together in so many ways, and I’m grateful for a lot of it, but I’m also learning that I repressed many parts of myself to keep our relationship going.
At the core of our separation is the fact that we were missing a deep emotional connection, and because of that, we kept…missing each other. Bids for connection, little jokes, moments of affection—it went unnoticed and unappreciated, not for lack of effort, but because we just didn’t have that certain something that bound us together. We both grew up feeling deeply unseen and unknown in our families of origin, and neither of us could even really understand what it was that was missing. I remember, several years into our marriage, telling Jason that I just felt disconnected and didn’t know why or how to fix it; looking back, maybe that was just the full truth of it.
I’m not sure a relationship can be fulfilling when connection is not a baseline presence. And, in my experience, that lack can feel very unsafe. So, like a good little wifey, I tried harder to make our marriage work: I gave more, did more, read more books, opened up to trusted others. When resentment, attraction to another person, or blame came up, I pushed it down; good wives don’t feel these things. Yikes. In the lack of connection and safety, what I ended up chasing was perfection.
This, indeed, is a survival strategy—and it’s done its job to protect me from being abandoned by other people. If I suppress my needs, if I don’t upset anyone or cause discomfort, if I shrink myself to be easy to love, then I will maintain the “connection” I have with those I need it from most. This strategy worked when I needed it to, and because it’s what I’ve known, I brought that into every other relationship I’ve had, whether with friends, family, or romantic partners.
The thing with survival strategies, however brilliant they are when they are formed, is that they’re not so good at thriving. If you’re always doing your best just to survive, it means that you’re always on the lookout for threat—and I’m willing to wager that, for MANY of us, we’ve learned that the greatest threat to our connections is our authenticity. So, instead of being my full self, with all the sensitivity and bad days and impatience that comes with me, I opted to perform what I thought was the perfect version of a daughter, wife, mother, student, friend. What else can you do when your own humanity is the very thing that you believe threatens the connections you so greatly desire?
I’m not sure Jason and I ever felt truly safe to be our authentic selves in our marriage, but which came first: Did we feel unsafe to be ourselves because there was always disconnection, or did we foster disconnection by not being authentic? I don’t know. I think both are simultaneously true. And now, it’s really quite beautiful to see us both making different choices that seem more aligned with who we really are without the fear of not being accepted by the other or being seen as a “good” wife or husband. It feels like such a relief to let him be who he is without trying to change him; it’s okay that we aren’t the right fit together, and my only regret is that I wish I knew that a long time ago.
Reorienting around authenticity has led to a lot of grief. It’s meant losing the parts of my life that could only be sustained when I chased perfection. I’ve had to give myself permission to let go of people who aren’t able to see all of me without wincing or looking away. I’ve repeatedly released versions of the future I hoped for when I realized I had to cling to make it happen. This season has asked me to strip down in order to reveal the places where I still perform for love and acceptance.
Yet, this work has also felt like an expression of tenderness towards myself. In my twenties, the goal of healing was to make other people see me, know me, love me. Now, I’m cultivating safety by meeting the broken parts of me with acceptance, holding them the same way I hold my small people, and telling them the things they’ve always needed to hear:
“Even when you make mistakes, you are still worth being cared for.”
“Someone’s inability to meet your needs doesn’t make them a bad person, but it also doesn’t mean you need to shrink yourself to fit their capacity.”
“Thoughts and feelings carry truth, but they aren’t facts. You can witness it, feel it, and move through it.”
“You are easy to love.”
The people who I choose to journey with won’t need to be convinced to come along—they will show up fully because they want to AND because they have the capacity to. They will lean in with care and curiousity. They will be willing to take the risk of vulnerability.
When that happens, it’s pure magic.
Have you shrunk yourself to be loved? What parts of you need to take up more space?
What words do you most need to hear right now? Can you give that to yourself?
“If I suppress my needs, if I don’t upset anyone or cause discomfort, if I shrink myself to be easy to love, then I will maintain the “connection” I have with those I need it from most.”
Really resonating with this. Last month, at an event for work, we were asked to write down a personal ‘big dream’ and after much internal deliberation, I wrote down ‘find authenticity’. I think I meant was ‘find the courage to be authentic’ but I was nervous 😅 In work and social situations, I find myself all-consumed with trying add value to the meeting/conversation, trying to be helpful, making sure I smile (so much that my face literally starts twitching), all just to ensure that people like me, that I barely recognise myself. It’s been interesting to observe that impulse and try and course-correct with behaviours that would feel more ‘me’. I guess it’s an ongoing process, some days are better than others, but dang if your words don’t capture it beautifully.