It's 6:15 AM on Christmas morning, and I’m sitting in my kitchen, drinking hot coffee while a batch of cinnamon rolls rises. I can hear my family breathing softly as they sleep, and I feel a spark of excitement thinking about their faces when they open their gifts and enjoy the treats I’ve made. But beneath that excitement, I feel tired—physically, emotionally, all of it. I’m overstimulated, crying on and off, and my body feels achy and heavy. I thought that by the time I reached adulthood, with decades of Christmas mornings behind me, I’d have figured out how to make this season feel lighter, more joyful, easier. But it’s been the opposite, a slow downward slope.
I think part of it is just life—being busy, stretched too thin, working too hard. Not in the cliché, humble-brag way of saying “Oh, I’m such a perfectionist,” but in a way acknoledges my effort as a flaw. The truth is, I find happiness in being accepted, in being seen as “good to have around.” That acceptance comes when I work hard, give more, do more. And when I get that praise, that fleeting moment of feeling useful, it’s like a high. A high that pushes me to keep going, harder and harder, until my own needs disappear beneath the surface. It’s not healthy—I know that—but my craving for acceptance overrides my logic. I’m surprised that more people don’t take advantage of me. Though, in the past, plenty have. Manipulation, love bombing, gaslighting—I’ve lived through all of it. These days I hide more. But I’m still chasing that high. The worst part is feeling conflicted. Am I the one manipulating people by letting them step on me?
So here I am, writing. This little corner of the internet is where I can let some of this out. Part of why I write is to share my experiences, hoping someone who feels the same might find comfort in knowing they’re not alone. But it’s also because this is my only real outlet. I talk more here than I do with my husband, my best friends, or my family. It feels like when people ask, “How are you?” they only want the simplest, most palatable answer. Why bother telling the truth if their eyes are going to glaze over? It feels like what’s wanted from me is my ear, my hugs, my energy—but never my soul, not in all its messy, complicated glory.
So I’m sorry if this feels heavy—it’s Christmas, after all. But if I can’t unmask here, if I can’t cry or process what I’m feeling, then I don’t know what’s left for me. This is my space to be myself without fear, to imagine that someone asked how I’m really feeling and truly wanted to hear the answer. To let myself be seen, if only for a moment.
The truth is, we tend to train people how we want to be treated. If others know you have wishy-washy boundaries, then they are free to walk all over you; the results? You become a doormat. We have actually trained others to do this when we allow people to wipe their muddy feet on us. After all, we are doormats.
– d W. Earle LPC (Love is Not Enough)