Sometimes, I realize, I can be a lot for you—more than you asked for, more than you needed.

In an attempt to make sure that everyone gets what they need, I reach out early, plan ahead, and try to identify what could go wrong so I can fix it before it even happens. What I didn’t understand was that what felt like love to me felt like pressure to you.

For a long time, I didn’t really understand what you were trying to say.
I didn’t get it.

I didn’t know that love can also feel like there’s no room to breathe.

I thought love was showing up prepared.
I thought love was remembering what everyone liked.
I thought love was making sure no one felt forgotten.
I thought love was making sure everyone got along and stayed happy.

I thought love was doing.

We repeat what was transferred to us from previous generations and without understanding, we repeat it even when we think we aren’t. That isn’t to blame our parents or grandparents because I think we’re all just trying to do the best we can. That doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t excuse that I should have known better.

When your children are young, your job is to keep them safe. Our responsibility is to protect our family. When you were little, that made sense. But somewhere along the way, that role began to shift.

Over time, my identity came from keeping everyone around me safe and happy. Sometimes that meant invalidating emotions and unintentionally taking away your freedom to make choices—especially ones I thought were wrong.

I didn’t realize I was building my identity around you—
which probably often felt like I was trying to control.

But I didn’t leave enough space for you to choose me.

So when I was told I was a lot, it didn’t just hurt.
It collapsed the whole structure.

If love wasn’t wanted, then what did I have to give? Who was I?

Here’s the part I didn’t understand then—but am learning now:

Intent doesn’t cancel impact.

I wasn’t trying to control.
I wasn’t trying to crowd.
I wasn’t trying to demand closeness

I confused doing with connection.
I confused effort with safety.

I see now that love also needs restraint.
That closeness grows where there is freedom to choose.
That people don’t pull away because they aren’t loved—
but because they don’t feel free.

A Hard Lesson to Learn:

You didn’t pull back because I failed to love you.
You pulled back because I didn’t know how to stop loving at you instead of with you.

I’m learning now—late, imperfectly—to sit instead of reach.
To wait instead of anticipate.
To trust that I don’t have to prove my place.

I don’t know what repair looks like yet, but understanding is reshaping how I love.

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