Today I sent a direct, boundary making text that terrified me. I was scared to do it, I sobbed, I hit send. I made space for it, I celebrated my bravery, I forgave myself for not doing it earlier. I wanted to run and ignore it (a chronic habit) but I sat in it.
For a long, long time I held back, silenced. So I took some time today mourning my old niceties, my old seventy-times-seven cheek turning sacrifices of sanity.
Having spent the majority of my life “killing with kindness” I can say with reasonable certainty that this method is just an inherited recipe for feeling like shit. Whose being killed with kindness here? Who is killing?
You know that story about the mother that passes down the recipe that calls for the ends of the roast to be cut off before being cooked? The daughter asks “why” and no one knows, do they? Well Grandma does. She’s so matter-of-fact, “We cut the ends so it would fit in the pot!” Kill them with kindness is like that. It is a means of survival, a utility in times of lack and scraps. We’ve got bigger containers now. We do not need to trim ourselves to find grace and pride.
We can speak with fire.
The new recipe for power and growth and dealing with challenge is getting really fucking okay with what we are. It means refusing to act the part of what we think we are supposed to be. It means saying “no”. It means admitting that you stumbled out of your marriage after it almost killed off the best parts of you, and that being okay with that means that you are healing.
Healing doesn’t come in making a home for every stray energy that comes. Abuse won’t be killed with kindness. Boundaries are not made through excuses and blame and spiritual bypassing.
Belonging and boundaries are not found in palatable “nice”. Belonging is found on a limb brothers and sisters.
Splaying ourselves holy and perfect via kind killing is a trap laid to keep us small. It’s a habitual horror that checks a box of phony tiny drowning quiet. And you and I deserve more than that.