Opinion piece: Barbara Lee
For a long time, I believed that being a good person meant being endlessly available. Always helpful. Always adaptable. Never making a fuss when something felt uncomfortable. I was proud of how much I could handle — proud that people could count on me, that I was the one who figured things out, kept things together, and never took anything personally.
And yet, I was exhausted.
From the outside, it probably wasn't obvious. I showed up, I was present in my relationships, I worked hard, I paid attention to others. But inside, something felt like too much. Everyone seemed to have access to my time, my energy, my attention — while I somehow had no access to myself.
Looking back, I think the reason setting boundaries felt so impossible was that I had confused them with rejection.
If I say no, I'm selfish. If I don't respond immediately, I'm letting someone down. If I admit I don't have the capacity for something, I'm a bad friend, a bad partner, a bad person. At least, that's what I believed for a long time.
What was really driving me was fear
The truth is, I was terrified that people wouldn't love me if I said no. So I kept saying yes — to things I had no desire to do, to conversations that drained me completely, to other people's problems that they themselves weren't even trying to solve. And all the while, I felt like I couldn't breathe.
It was a slow and painful realization: you simply cannot function long-term when you're constantly working against yourself.
I knew something had to change. But I also knew it had to start small.
I stopped picking up the phone on the first ring. I stopped replying to every message the moment it arrived. I allowed myself evenings where I simply didn't want to talk to anyone. At first, even these tiny steps felt absurd to attempt. I felt genuine guilt for not being constantly reachable.
But then, slowly, I started noticing something: the world didn't fall apart.
Most people weren't offended. In fact, they often didn't even notice the boundary I had drawn — the one that felt like such a monumental thing inside me. Of course, there were some who didn't like the change. People who had grown used to me always adapting, always having time, always being available.
That discomfort led to the most important realization of all
When you start setting boundaries, some relationships do shift. But often not because you've become a worse person — rather because a dynamic that only worked as long as you kept overstepping your own limits has finally broken down.
The biggest change, though, didn't happen in my relationships. It happened inside me.
I became calmer. Less tense. That constant internal scramble to meet everyone's needs at once started to fade. And here's what surprised me most: since I began protecting my energy, I can actually be more genuinely present for others.
Because helping someone from a place of fullness feels completely different from helping while running on empty.
I also learned that love isn't proven by tolerating everything, endlessly.
Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is say out loud: this is my limit. I have capacity for this, but not for that. Right now, I need rest. Right now, I need to put myself first.
I used to think that saying those words would make me less lovable.
Now I think it's exactly where I finally started loving myself for the first time.
