Self-Aware Enough to Know I’m the Problem (Sometimes)
There was a time — not all that long ago — when I let things get to me far too easily. I let people walk over me. I stayed quiet when I should have spoken up. I internalized more than I ever should have carried. And truthfully, it wasn’t just in one area of life — it was everywhere. Work. Family. Relationships. I didn’t know where my boundaries were because I hadn’t yet decided I deserved to have any.
But over the years — and especially in this most recent season of soul searching — I’ve come to realize that part of emotional intelligence isn’t just understanding others… it’s learning yourself. It’s knowing where your limits lie and recognizing what’s worth holding space for — and what no longer deserves a seat at your table.
These moments of self-reflection aren’t always triggered by major life changes. Sometimes they come quietly, wrapped in a comment that lingers longer than it should, or a subtle shift in how you feel walking into a room that once felt safe. They’re often born from small things — but they create big clarity.
Let me take you back ten years.
I was a new mom, still trying to figure out how to keep a tiny human alive while navigating marriage, work, and the sheer identity shift that comes after "I do" turns into “What now?” Professionally, I was in a bit of a limbo — I had just finished my business degree, but I had no real idea what I wanted to do. So I took a job as a nanny.
It was part of my "I don’t really know what I want to be when I grow up" phase — which, looking back, makes me laugh and cringe all at once. There are moments I think back on with total mortification, but also with some grace. Because that was a version of me who was doing the best she could. She didn’t have a voice yet. She didn’t know her own limits. But she was learning.
So here’s the funny-not-funny part. It was about 8:00 PM one night, and I was still at work. Two hours past my scheduled time to leave — which, by the way, was normal in this particular job. My phone buzzed. It was a text from the mom:
“Grabbing dinner in the city with hubby — we’ll be late!”
Now, I was exhausted. I had been there since early morning. My daughter was a newborn at home. I knew she’d be up all night. I was already running on fumes. And the sheer audacity of that message — so casual, so flippant — made my blood boil.
And what did I do?
I stayed.
Until 2:00 in the morning.
Then I went home, didn’t say a word, came back the next day, and pretended it didn’t bother me. And because I never said it was a problem… it kept happening. Again. And again. And again.
Every time, I got angrier. Every time, I felt more used. But I never said anything. So while yes, the boundary was crossed — I was the one who kept opening the gate.
Looking back now, I see the same lesson in that chapter of my life that I saw just the other day when Maddie had her meltdown: growth means choosing presence over panic.
In both moments, the easy response would’ve been to react — to either scream or shut down. In that nannying chapter, I shut down. I disappeared into myself. I didn’t speak up because I didn’t think I could.
But now? I show up.
Not with rage, but with presence.
Not with silence, but with clarity.
Part of growing has been me learning how to express my feelings — whether that be with Kyle, telling him that what he said made me upset even if I can't quite rationalize why it made me upset, or figuring out where to push and where to just let things go — with my children, professionally, and even with Kyle. If we look back on our relationship now, it's completely different than it was 10 years ago — heck, it's completely different than it was a year ago — because we are constantly growing, constantly evolving, constantly learning. So at the end of the day, even if you aren't where you want to be, you can get there.
Lately, I’ve been sitting in that space. That foggy, yet oddly illuminating stretch of internal dialogue where I ask myself hard questions:
What am I willing to tolerate?
What values do I refuse to compromise?
Where am I giving too much of myself without return?
And through that, I’ve come to a few unshakable truths:
I now know my hard limits — the places I will no longer let people push me past.
I’ve also learned to honor my soft limits — the moments where I feel myself starting to drift from who I want to be, even if I can’t always explain why.
And I’ve stopped making space for what no longer serves me, while also letting go of the urge to control things that were never mine to carry in the first place.
Ten years ago, my limits would have looked different. And in another ten, they probably will again. That’s the beauty of growth — the willingness to revisit who you are, without shame for who you were.
So, if you’re in a season like mine — a quiet reckoning, a pause, a reset — know this: it doesn’t have to come with fanfare or a major life event. The act of checking in with yourself is, in itself, a declaration of self-worth. It’s you saying, “My peace matters.” It’s you reclaiming your time, your space, your energy.
And at the end of the day, that’s all I really want:
To find satisfaction in the life I choose to live — not the one I feel obligated to tolerate.
To make room for joy. For purpose.
And to never again shrink myself to fit into something I’ve already outgrown.
