📝 On Boundaries and the Way We Were Raised

Growing up in Albania, most of us were never taught the language of emotional boundaries. We were taught to care, to be present, to sacrifice. We were praised for how much we gave, how quiet we stayed, how little we asked for. The more you endured, the more mature you were seen to be. And the more you bent yourself around other people’s needs, the more you were admired.

But something happens when you grow up always putting others first. You begin to lose track of yourself.

Many of us were raised with the belief that saying no is rude. That disagreeing with a parent is disrespectful. That asking for space is ungrateful. We were taught that closeness means being constantly available. That love is proven through sacrifice. That worth is measured by how much you can carry without complaint.

And so we grew into adults who still feel the need to explain ourselves when we need rest. Who stay silent instead of speaking up. Who say yes even when our whole body wants to say no. We do it out of love, but also out of fear. A quiet fear that if we take space or set limits, we will hurt someone. Or be seen differently. Or lose our place in the circle.

These fears are not irrational. They are echoes of everything we were shown and not shown. In so many families, boundaries were not seen as emotional health. They were seen as disconnection. To say not now or I need something different was to risk being misunderstood. Or worse, left out.

But the truth is this. Boundaries are not rejection. They are not cold. They are not selfish. They are what make love steady and real.

A boundary says I want to stay in connection with you and I want to stay in connection with myself. It says I care about us and I care about what I can carry without losing myself. It is not a wall. It is a doorway to more honest, more sustainable relationships.

Learning to set boundaries when you were not raised with that freedom is not easy. It can bring guilt, doubt, even grief. You may feel like you are doing something wrong. Like you are letting someone down. But over time, something else begins to grow in that space. Relief. Clarity. Safety. A quiet feeling that whispers I am allowed to be a person too.

We are allowed to unlearn the parts of love that asked us to disappear. We are allowed to show up in our relationships as full people. With needs. With limits. With a voice. And if that feels unfamiliar or frightening, you are not alone. That feeling is the beginning of something new. Something honest. Something that belongs to you.