I thought setting boundaries meant losing people — until I set one with my mother

For most of my adult life, I confused boundaries with abandonment.

Maybe you can relate.

I didn’t grow up in a household where people said, “No, that doesn’t work for me.” We said yes. We made room. We pushed down our discomfort and convinced ourselves it was easier that way. Politeness reigned over honesty, especially with family.

And for a long time, I believed that was love.

Until a quiet but persistent feeling started to grow in me—one I couldn’t ignore anymore.

When silence becomes a slow burn

It started with little things. My mother would call in the middle of a busy workday, and I’d answer—even though I was swamped. She’d ask probing questions about my relationships or finances, and I’d respond—even though I felt exposed.

If I didn’t answer immediately or forgot to call back, I’d get a guilt-laced text: “Are you okay? You never used to take this long to reply.”

I knew she meant well. She always had.

But over time, I noticed something: I was building up a quiet resentment. Not at her exactly, but at myself—for never being able to say, “Not right now,” or “That’s not something I want to talk about.”

Still, every time I considered pushing back, I imagined the fallout. Would she be hurt? Would she stop calling altogether? Would I lose her?

The irony is, by always saying yes, I was already losing myself.

Then came the tipping point.

She made a comment during a family dinner—something small but stinging—about how I was “too sensitive these days.” I laughed it off in the moment. But that night, I sat in my car in the driveway long after I’d pulled in, staring at the steering wheel, feeling a strange mix of grief and anger.

That’s when I realized: I wasn’t avoiding boundaries because I didn’t know how to set them. I was avoiding them because I didn’t want to feel like a bad daughter.

And that belief was costing me peace.

The experiment of saying no

Setting the boundary wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t sit her down for a long speech or send a carefully crafted message. I just started small.

The next time she called while I was in a meeting, I didn’t answer. I texted back later and said, “Hey, I was working—can we catch up this weekend instead?”

She replied, “You’ve been so busy lately. Everything okay?”

Instead of appeasing or apologizing, I tried something different. I said, “I am busy—and I’m trying to do a better job protecting my time during the day. I’d love to talk Saturday if you’re free.”

That was it. It felt like a whisper of a boundary, but to me, it was thunder.

She didn’t explode. She didn’t go silent. She just said, “Okay.”

It wasn’t always that smooth. There were a few passive-aggressive jabs. A few “you’ve changed” comments.

But I kept going. I stopped answering questions I didn’t want to answer. I let calls go to voicemail. I started asking for what I needed in conversations—even if my voice shook.

And slowly, something interesting happened.

We got along better.

Not immediately, and not always. But the tension that had been simmering under the surface for years? It started to lift.

I was no longer carrying the weight of trying to manage her emotions. I could actually enjoy talking to her again—because I knew I could also step away if I needed to.

It’s wild how one small shift can change the energy of a whole relationship.

It wasn’t just with my mother, either. Once I realized I could set limits without burning bridges, I started doing it elsewhere too. With coworkers. Friends. Even myself.

Because the truth is, setting boundaries isn’t about shutting people out. It’s about deciding what gets to come in.

And sometimes, the people we love the most are the ones who need the clearest signs about where we end and they begin.

There’s a quote I came across recently that hit home: “Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” It’s from Brené Brown, and I think it captures the heart of it.

We often think love means always being available, always saying yes, always making space. But real love includes respect. And respect means knowing when to stop.

That’s something I wish I’d learned earlier.

Boundaries don’t make you mean. They make you honest. And if honesty is enough to break a relationship, then that relationship probably wasn’t as solid as you thought.

Sometimes, we stay overextended because we don’t want to lose the role we’ve been given. The “helpful daughter.” The “reliable one.” The “person you can always count on.”

But roles aren’t identities. They’re masks. And you can’t breathe deeply when you’re always holding one up.

It’s exhausting to constantly suppress your own needs just to be palatable to others.

And that exhaustion? It leaks. It shows up as irritation, burnout, withdrawal. The very things that damage relationships more than a simple, “Hey, I need to do things a little differently now.”

Another thing that helped me reframe all of this was reading Laughing in the Face of Chaos by Rudá Iandê. It’s one of those books that doesn’t tiptoe around anything. It’s gritty, uncomfortable, and almost hilariously honest in places.

But it reminded me that sometimes the best thing we can do—for ourselves and others—is stop trying to play a role we’ve outgrown.

One line from the book that really stuck with me was this: “Being real and flawed is more powerful than maintaining a perfect facade.”

That hit me. Because for years, I was performing the “good daughter” role so well, I forgot who I was underneath it. That version of me might’ve looked polished from the outside, but she was tired, disconnected, and quietly shrinking.

You can still love someone deeply and not want to talk every day. You can still be a good daughter and say, “No, that topic is off-limits.” You can still be kind and say, “Not right now.”

Boundaries don’t mean the relationship is broken. They mean you care enough to keep it healthy.

My mother and I are still close. But now, it feels healthier. Clearer. Less heavy. 

And most importantly, I’m not pretending anymore. I can show up as myself—without guilt, without resentment, and without fear that saying “no” will make me unlovable.

If you’re where I was, feeling stuck between wanting peace and fearing conflict, let me say this: your discomfort is not a betrayal. It’s a message.

Listen to it.

You don’t have to choose between honesty and love. You can have both.

Sometimes, all it takes is one boundary to realize you were never going to lose them—you were just finally starting to find you.