I Stopped Abandoning Myself First

For years, I thought explaining myself was kindness.

Sometimes it was.

Sometimes it was fear with excellent communication skills.

A few nights ago, I had plans to spend more time with people I love.

I wanted to go.

I had already spent beautiful time with them the night before, and part of me would have happily chosen more connection. That has been my pattern for much of my life.

If connection was available, I ran toward it.

Even when something I said mattered to me was waiting at home.

Even when I had work to finish.

Even when choosing connection meant quietly abandoning something I wanted for myself.

This time, I had a masterclass to prepare for.

I knew myself well enough to know that if I went, I would probably come home late. The energy I needed to finish what I was building would be gone.

So I picked up my phone and sent a message.

"Hey babe, I love you guys. I'm not gonna make it this time."

Period.

No explanation.

No paragraph about the masterclass.

No detailed account of what I needed to finish.

No evidence submitted for consideration.

No closing argument for why I was still a loving friend despite declining an invitation.

I hit send.

And I felt good.

Confident, even.

I had kept a promise to myself.

That should not have felt revolutionary.

Except, It did.

What I Used to Do

There was a version of me who would have explained everything.

Not because anyone necessarily asked.

Because I wanted to remove every possible reason someone might have for misunderstanding me.

If I told you why I couldn't come, maybe you wouldn't think I didn't want to see you.

If I explained how much work I had to do, maybe you wouldn't think I was choosing something more important than you.

If I gave you enough context, enough reassurance, enough evidence of my love, maybe you wouldn't question your place in my life.

And underneath all of that was something much older.

If you misunderstood me, maybe you wouldn't like me.

If you didn't like me, maybe you would leave.

Abandonment was one of the wounds I carried from childhood.

For years, I understood parts of my relationship with my father through that wound. Adult me can see more complexity now. I can recognize that the meaning I made as a child was not necessarily the whole truth.

But children do not need the whole truth to build a survival strategy.

They need an experience.

And then they make meaning from it.

Mine became:

People can leave.

So somewhere along the way, I became very good at trying to remove every possible reason they might.

The Explanation Beneath the Explanation

That realization changed the way I understood my over explaining.

I wasn't simply being thorough.

I wasn't always trying to communicate better.

Sometimes I was trying to make myself easier to keep.

Easier to understand.

Easier to forgive.

Easier to love.

I wasn't saying:

Please don't leave me.

It was subtler than that.

I was saying:

Let me remove every possible reason you could have for leaving me.

That distinction matters.

Because when a pattern looks like kindness, consideration, emotional intelligence, or good communication, it can live inside us for years without being questioned.

We may even get praised for it.

How thoughtful.

How accommodating.

How considerate.

Meanwhile, we are writing dissertations to justify a no.

Giving courtroom testimony for needing rest.

Explaining ordinary human limitations as though our belonging depends on the verdict.

Mine sometimes did.

At least, that was the story my body remembered.

The Cost of Staying

The irony is that while I was working so hard to prevent other people from abandoning me, there was one person I had become remarkably comfortable abandoning.

Me.

My plans could wait.

My dreams could wait.

My work could wait.

The thing I promised myself I would finish could wait.

Connection was here now.

And somewhere inside me was the belief that I had better take it while it was available.

That is the part I can see differently now.

There is nothing wrong with choosing connection.

I love connection.

I love my people.

I love laughing until my cheeks hurt, getting lost in conversations, sitting around tables longer than planned, and allowing an afternoon to become an evening because nobody is ready for it to end.

The problem was never loving people.

The problem was believing I had to leave myself to do it.

What Changed

That night, I didn't choose my masterclass over my friend.

I didn't choose ambition over connection.

I didn't become less loving.

I stood with myself.

There is a difference.

I could love them and still keep a promise to me.

I could want to be there and still decide not to go.

I could disappoint someone, or be misunderstood for a moment, without immediately rushing in to manage what they thought about me.

And I could communicate a decision without submitting my humanity for approval.

That may be the biggest shift.

I don't explain my humanity in order to earn permission.

Sometimes context is loving.

Sometimes explanation creates intimacy.

Sometimes the people we love deserve to understand what is happening inside us.

But explanation offered freely is different from explanation offered as insurance against rejection.

One is connection.

The other is negotiation.

I am learning the difference.

What I Keep Coming Back To

How many times have I said yes because no felt like it required too much paperwork?

How many explanations were really requests for reassurance?

How many times did I make myself endlessly understandable because I believed being misunderstood might make me disposable?

And how often did I leave myself first so nobody else would get the chance?

That last question sits differently.

Because I can see the little girl inside that pattern now.

She was not foolish.

She was paying attention.

She learned what she learned and built strategies around it.

But grown me gets to gather new evidence.

I can say no and remain loving.

I can choose my dreams and remain connected.

I can let someone have a feeling about my decision without making their feeling an emergency.

I can be misunderstood without disappearing into an explanation.

And if someone chooses to leave?

That may hurt.

But I no longer have to leave myself with them.

For years, I abandoned myself first so no one else would have the chance.

Love never asked me to do that.

Fear did.

I'm learning not to confuse the two.

Invisible Crown leadership begins within.

Authority is not declared. It is embodied.