The Other Side of Nice

Over the years, I’ve learned how to set boundaries. It used to feel impossible but with the help of therapy, a few tears, and trial-by-fire, I have learned how to say no.

There’s one boundary that still knocks the wind out of me. One that I have to recommit to daily, sometimes hourly: Not rescuing people I love. Especially the ones who clearly don’t want to rescue themselves.

Without sounding like a broken record, I’ve always been the fixer, the helper and for lack of better words, the “emotional paramedic”. 

I remember one heart-to-heart conversation with my dad that has stayed with me all these years. It was during a season when life felt especially heavy. I was recently divorced, my son and I were living with my now-husband and stepdaughter, and I was just trying to hold everything together day by day.

My dad wasn’t one to hand out compliments freely. He noticed everything, though—how I juggled parenting dynamics with exes, navigated relationships, worked full-time, and ran a busy household that didn’t always run smoothly.  So, when he looked at me one day and said, “You’re a strong girl, Lor” (the closest nickname I ever had from him), I felt something shift inside me. I was proud. I wore those words like a badge of honor. If Dad thought I was strong, then I must be doing something right.

From that moment on, I began to build my identity around being “the strong one.” I rarely asked for help. I thought my value came from being resilient, steady, and capable of carrying it all. I believed love was proven through sacrifice, and that loyalty meant giving until you were empty.

What I didn’t realize then was that strength can be a double-edged sword. Yes, it carried me through some of the hardest times of my life. But it also taught me to silence my own needs, to push past exhaustion, and to believe that asking for help was weakness.

Believe me when I say, when someone I loved struggled; whether it was through poor choices, self-sabotage, or emotional chaos; I jumped in. Problem solving, softening landings and hell, even cleaning up messes.  I couldn’t bear to watch them suffer. I confused enabling with compassion.

The cruel part of all of this; sometimes, it worked.

Slowly but surely, I began to recognize that every time I rescued them, I betrayed myself.
Every time I overextended, I abandoned my own needs, or I blurred the line between support and saving, I stayed stuck in the same cycle:

They spiraled.
I stepped in.
They recovered just enough to need me again.
I called it love.

I have learned to pause before jumping in and now, I check in with myself before trying to caretake everyone else.

Slowly, I learned to say, ‘I love you, but I can’t fix this for you.’ I stopped rushing in with answers to questions that were never asked. The best advice I received was to simply ask, ‘Do you want my help, or do you just want me to listen?’ More often than not, it was the latter.”

So when I learned to start saying no, I had to sit with the discomfort of being misunderstood, and sometimes my boundaries brought on resentment from those who didn’t understand them.

It can be hurtful.  Because letting someone fall, when you know how to catch them, feels like cruelty — until you realize it’s the only way they’ll learn to stand.

This blog isn’t me saying that I have it all figured out.  I certainly do not.  I still struggle each day.  I was trained from childhood to earn love by being needed and I still confuse discomfort with danger. Sometimes I mistake guilt for guidance. And most of all, I still want peace in the room, even if it costs me my own.

This boundary — the one where I let people sit in the consequences of their own choices — is the hardest one I’ve ever had to keep. But it has helped me to tolerate discomfort, trust the process and sit in silence. Even if that means I have to resist the urge to be the hero.

Helping is only healthy when it doesn’t cost you yourself.

Remember, just because someone is disappointed doesn’t mean you did something wrong.

Their reactions are theirs. My job is not to manage everyone’s emotions. (But damn, I still have to relearn this every week.)

If you’re struggling to keep a boundary that breaks your heart… you’re not alone. It doesn’t mean you’re cold. It means you’re healing and growing.
It means you’re finally learning that loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself in them.