What I’m learning about understanding other people without dismissing myself.

Recently, I shared a reflection on my 5-year anniversary at AWS and what I’ve come to realize during those years.

Lately, I’ve been putting together some pieces from much further back. Things I’ve known about myself for a long time, but hadn’t quite connected.

One of them is how often I pretended things didn’t bother me when they really did.

I knew I was doing it. I could recognize when someone was being inconsiderate, when something felt unfair, or when I was taking on more than my share. But I could usually come up with an explanation that minimized the other person’s behavior.

They were stressed. They were going through something. They didn’t mean it that way. They already knew they’d made a mistake, so what good would it do to bring it up?

I thought I was being understanding, patient, kind. Sometimes I was. But sometimes I was just giving myself a reason to stay quiet.

A familiar way to keep the peace

I can trace that habit back to kindergarten.

I was an awkward kid. I was sick a lot, missed a lot of school, didn’t have the same level of social exposure the other kids did. When other kids teased or excluded me, showing that it hurt just made them laugh and continue doing it even more. Adults offered familiar advice: ignore them. If they don’t get a reaction, they’ll eventually stop.

Even then, I remember wondering:

Why am I the one who needs to change my behavior?

My reaction was a normal response to being hurt. Why weren’t the kids doing the hurting expected to change?

Still, I learned to hide the reaction. To pretend like nothing bothered me.

I’m not saying this one childhood experience explains everything that came afterward. But I do recognize how familiar that response became. By adulthood, setting aside my feelings to avoid conflict was part of my normal operating procedure.

I also cared deeply about accepting people. I knew what rejection felt like, and I didn’t want to make someone else feel that way.

Somewhere along the way, I began treating those two things as if they were connected: accepting someone meant I had to keep quiet about how their behavior affected me. A strange combination of heartfelt warmth and empathy paired with a brick wall of aloofness. Caring about others while shielding myself.

If there was an issue, and the other person acknowledged the problem and said they were working on it, I felt I should appreciate their honesty and focus on the future. Bringing up my hurt seemed unproductive. It felt like putting them on the spot.

But understanding why something happened didn’t make its effect on me any less impactful. It just meant that impact often went unspoken and unresolved.

I finally saw myself in my children

This pattern affected a long-term relationship. It would be easy to turn this into a tidy story: I didn’t speak up, then I learned to speak up, and everything changed and my life was amazing.

That isn’t what happened.

I did speak up, many times. I explained what bothered me. I even tried to leave several times before I eventually left for good. But fear and practical barriers often stood in the way.

What helped me see things differently was recognizing that I did not want my children to learn this is how relationships are supposed to be. I didn’t want them to watch me being treated in ways that hurt me, and conclude that this was something they should accept in their own lives.

Once I looked at it that way, I had to ask myself:

If I would not accept this for my kids, why am I accepting this for myself?

If I can see that something would damage their confidence and happiness, why does my own confidence and happiness deserve a lower standard?

Protecting them helped me recognize my responsibility to protect and advocate for myself.

The relief began almost as soon as I made the decision to leave. After the break, my resolve grew even stronger through ordinary everyday experiences: just being myself, making decisions without anticipating someone’s reaction, going through a day without walking on eggshells.

The experience of living a completely normal “boring” life made it increasingly difficult to dismiss what the previous situation had been costing me. As they say, a fish doesn’t see the water while it’s swimming in it.

Understanding has to go both ways

I still want to be a considerate person. I still want to understand where someone else is coming from. But now I’m more willing to say:

“Okay, I understand where you’re coming from. Now listen to where I’m coming from. We don’t have to agree, but we do need to understand each other.”

I may still choose to help someone out, accommodate a mistake, or pick up some extra work. The difference is that I don’t want to make that choice while pretending it costs me nothing.

Recently, I had to be very direct with a business transaction where I had already explained what I was able to provide and what I was willing to accept in return. After repeated requests for me to change my position in a way that would put me at a disadvantage, I finally made it clear that I would engage in no further discussion regarding the matter. “Take it or leave it,” basically.

After the call, my daughter commented on how forceful I sounded. I told her I needed them to know exactly what I expected to happen and when. Otherwise, the same situation would keep repeating, they would keep pushing, and I would keep feeling pressured to back off and accept less than I deserved.

What struck me afterward was that I didn’t feel guilty. I felt completely justified in being clear, direct and assertive.

That was a small, ordinary interaction. But for me, it was evidence of a significant change.

The question I’m asking now

I’m still figuring this out. I don’t have a formula for every difficult relationship or uncomfortable conversation.

I also know that speaking up doesn’t guarantee someone will listen, and that there are situations where protecting yourself requires additional support, planning, and more than just a clearly stated boundary.

But I have one quick question I can use to assess the situation:

When I explain someone’s behavior to myself, am I also making room for how it affects me?

Their circumstances may deserve compassion. But my experience deserves consideration, too.

I don’t have to confront every slight. I can choose my timing, keep some things private, or decide that a particular conversation just isn’t worth having.

What I don’t want to do anymore is automatically treat my own needs as the part that gets set aside.

I won’t pretend that things don’t bother me when they really do.

For a long time, that felt like too much to ask. Now it feels like an honest place to begin.