Learning to Set Boundaries (Even When My Brain Short-Circuits at the Word “No”)

I’ve been in therapy for five years — real therapy, too. The kind where you actually unpack your childhood instead of pretending everything is fine-so-fine, the kind where you learn vocabulary for your feelings, the kind where you slowly peel yourself toward a more authentic version of who you want to be.

I’ve changed a lot. I’m more self-aware, more intentional, less likely to combust internally because someone breathed wrong in my direction.

But somehow, after all this progress, there’s one thing I still can’t seem to do:

Just say what I need.

Just say what I don’t like.

Just say “no.”

The Trip That Was Supposed to Be Mine

Case in point: this trip I’m currently on.

I was offered a cool, quiet place to stay — a genuine four-day escape where I could rest, reset, and maybe even breathe like a human being instead of a stretched-thin cartoon version of one. I pictured silence. I pictured solitude. I pictured not being responsible for anyone else’s bodily fluids.

But then came the pressure.

“You should bring your son!”
“It’ll be fun!”
“It’s not a big deal!”

And even though I said, clearly, out loud, I don’t want to bring him, and even though I explained we are not exactly vibing right now, the pressure didn’t stop. So I caved. I brought my kid. And now I’m on day three of a “vacation” with a four-year-old who currently views me as the human equivalent of a cardboard cutout blocking the door to the playground.

Honestly? He’d probably roast marshmallows over my dead body if it meant he could get out of brushing his hair.

And I should have said no.

I should have kept the boundary I knew was right.

I should have listened to the part of me that said, Mae, don’t do this. You need a break.

But instead, I listened to the pressure. I listened to the guilt. I listened to the familiar echo of “don’t inconvenience anyone.”

Now I Want to Leave Early… and Guess What? More Pressure.

Here I am again: I want to leave early so I can split the drive into two smaller stretches. I want to check into a place with free food and an indoor pool, reset, and actually experience one night that feels like a tiny, stolen breath of rest before we go home.

But my house hosts — yes, my parents, congratulations if you solved that puzzle — don’t want me to leave early.

So the choice becomes:

Stay
→ keep everyone else happy
→ continue battling my “strong-willed” child
→ keep being the villain for wanting him to wear chapstick and look like he's been brushed by a human being at any point this decade
→ and sacrifice what I know would be healthier for both of us

or

Go
→ honor what I know is best
→ reduce the fighting and overstimulation
→ create a gentler, easier, more connected two-day journey
→ and listen to my actual needs

And even though the second option is clearly better, my brain still fights me.
Still freezes.
Still asks, “Why do you need to make things difficult?”
Still whispers, “Just be easy.”
Still worries about disappointing people who aren’t living my life or parenting my kid.

The Pattern I Keep Meeting

Here’s the uncomfortable truth therapy keeps pointing me toward:

I was raised to be agreeable, adaptable, non-reactive, low maintenance.
A peacekeeper.
A shapeshifter.
A good girl.

It’s no wonder it feels physically painful to assert myself. My whole nervous system was wired around keeping everyone else comfortable.

But that wiring doesn’t work for me anymore — not as a woman, not as a parent, not as someone who’s trying to heal.

Parenting Through the Reality of Who We Are

People love to say things like:

“Kids just have to deal with boring grown-up things!”
“You can’t let them run the show!”
“You need to teach him to just go with the flow!”

But the truth is… my husband and I thrive when we do things our son actually enjoys. When we match his pace. When we don’t drag him through situations that make him miserable and turn him into a tiny, angry dragon.

Life is hard enough. Vacation should not be an Olympic sport of suffering.

We’re not permissive parents. We’re responsive parents. We know what works for our child — and what breaks him.

So why is it so hard to advocate for the route we know will cause less pain for everyone involved?

Because old habits die hard.

Because boundary-setting is a muscle I’m still learning to use.

Because saying “I’m leaving” or “this isn’t working for us” triggers every uncomfortable childhood script about being “difficult” or “ungrateful.”

But I’m Learning

The truth is, boundary-setting isn’t a single moment of bravery.
It’s a practice.

Sometimes you get it right.
Sometimes you realize you didn’t.
Sometimes you sit on a pretty couch in a pretty house and think,
Shit. I did it again.

But this — this noticing, this frustration, this awareness — is the work.

I’m learning to hear my own voice.
I’m learning to trust the discomfort.
I’m learning that “no” is not a moral failure.
I’m learning that I don’t need permission to take care of myself.
I’m learning, painfully and imperfectly, that peace is allowed to matter.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll pack up the car and leave early.
Maybe I won’t.
Either way, I am paying attention.
And that is a kind of progress no one else gets to measure but me.