I Didn't Know I Was Self-Abandoning — I Thought I Was Just Easy Going

There was a time in my life when I would not have called it self-abandonment.

I would have called it being understanding. Being easy. Being strong.

Being the one who could handle it.

For a long time, I thought those things were just who I was. I thought I was being loving. I thought I was being mature.

But looking back now, with more compassion than shame, I can see something different.

I was leaving myself.

Not because I was weak. Not because I did not know better.

But because somewhere along the way, my nervous system learned that being accepted felt safer than being honest.

Self-Abandonment Doesn't Look Dramatic From the Outside

Sometimes it looks like smiling when something hurt.

Sometimes it looks like saying "it's fine" when your whole body knows it is not.

Sometimes it looks like being the helper, the calm one, the one who understands everyone else's pain — while quietly ignoring her own.

Sometimes it looks like becoming so good at reading the room that you forget to ask yourself how you feel in it.

That was me. For years.

The Little Girl Who Learned to Read the Room

I think about the little version of me often.

The one who picked up fear in the air around her before she knew what anxiety was. The one who felt things deeply but did not always know where to put those feelings. The one who, in many ways, felt like she had to fight for the right to exist.

I want to say this gently — my story is not about blaming my mother or making anyone a villain.

My mum had her own pain. She carried things she did not have the tools, the time, or the support to heal. I can hold compassion for that and still tell the truth about what younger me needed.

Both can be true. That is one of the hardest and most healing parts of this work.

We can love people. We can believe they did their best. And we can still admit that something in us learned to survive by disappearing.

For me, self-abandonment did not begin as a choice.

It began as adaptation. It began as reading the room. It began as learning that peace sometimes came when I made myself smaller.

I Thought My "Picker" Was Broken

For years I said my picker was broken when it came to men.

I do not believe that anymore.

I think my idea of love had been shaped by survival. When attention or connection showed up — even when it was not healthy — part of me could still attach to it. Not because I wanted to be hurt. But because something in me had learned to accept crumbs when what she actually needed was safety, tenderness, and being chosen.

That is what old wounds do. They do not announce themselves as wounds. They show up as chemistry. As over-explaining. As chasing reassurance. As accepting less than you need because at least it feels like something.

For a long time I thought something was wrong with me.

Now I can see the younger part of me who was still trying to be loved in the only ways she knew how.

The Three Ways I Kept Leaving Myself

The yes my body never meant.
I would feel the discomfort, and override it. Agree. Adjust. Tell myself it was not a big deal.
But every time I did, I taught myself that my truth mattered less than someone else's comfort.

The needs I learned to shrink.
I became very good at needing less. Less support. Less softness. Less help.
I could convince myself I was fine before I even gave anyone a chance to show up for me.
Underneath that was a younger part of me who had learned that needing too much might cost her connection.

The room I monitored instead of myself.
I could feel the mood shift before anyone said a word. I could adjust my tone, my face, my energy — become whatever felt safest.
But after years of that, you lose the sound of your own inner voice. You forget to ask:

Healing Has Been Learning to Stay With Myself

I will not pretend it has been easy.

It has meant sitting with feelings I used to run from. Unlearning stories that told me I was too much, not enough, too sensitive, too needy, too hard to love.

It has meant letting some people be uncomfortable with the version of me who no longer abandons herself to keep the peace.

Because when people are used to you saying yes, your no can feel like betrayal.
When people are used to you shrinking, your needs can feel like too much.
When people are used to you carrying everything, your boundaries can feel selfish.

But that does not mean you are doing something wrong.

Sometimes it means you are finally doing something honest.

This Is Why I Created This Work

I know what it is like to live for years inside patterns you do not even know are patterns.

To think you are just being helpful, easy, low-maintenance — when really, a younger part of you is still trying to stay safe.

That is why I made 3 Ways We Self-Abandon and How to Stop.

It is a free, gentle guide to help you begin noticing the patterns that have been running quietly underneath your life. No shame. No overwhelm. Just a soft, honest place to start.