You’d think that nearly eight years after divorcing a narcissist and rebuilding my life, I’d be a pro at boundaries.
I talk about them. I teach them. I write about the importance of saying no, of choosing yourself, of walking away from what hurts.
And yet, here I am—still struggling to stick up for myself. Still feeling that old familiar pull to “just go along,” to keep the peace, to be the easy one, the accommodating one, the people pleaser.
Recently, that pattern exploded in my face.
The Moment I Lost It
I was with a friend who kept pushing and pushing—antagonizing me, poking at sore spots, and refusing to let it go. You know that feeling when your nervous system starts buzzing, your chest tightens, and you know you should say, “Enough. Please stop”? (which I did ask over and over…..)
Instead, I did what I’ve done a thousand times before: I tried to stay calm, tried to be polite, tried to “handle it.”
Until I couldn’t.
I erupted. I shouted. All the swallowed words and the pushed-down feelings came out in one messy wave. I am not proud of how I reacted—but I am also human. I apologized.
And here’s the kicker: instead of accepting my apology, this person escalated. They instigated another argument. They kept going, saying more hurtful things, twisting the situation, making it all my fault.
That dynamic? Oh, I know it far too well.
Being married to a narcissist taught me exactly how that script goes.
Why Boundaries Feel So Hard After Narcissistic Abuse
People on the outside might say, “You’re divorced now. It’s been years. Why is it still so hard for you to speak up?”
Because my nervous system doesn’t know it’s been eight years.
It remembers:
- What happened when I did speak up.
- The punishment for having needs.
- The silent treatment, the rage, the gaslighting.
- Being told I was “too sensitive,” “selfish,” “dramatic,” or “crazy.”
When you’ve lived with that long enough, your brain learns a simple survival rule:
Keeping the peace = staying safe.
So I became very good at:
- Reading the room.
- Anticipating what everyone else needed.
- Avoiding conflict at all costs.
- Sacrificing myself so no one else would explode.
That survival strategy has a name: people pleasing, or in trauma language, the fawn response. It’s what happens when fight or flight or freeze aren’t options—so you make yourself small, agreeable, and convenient.
Even after the narcissist is gone, the pattern often stays.
The Cost of “Going With the Flow”
Here’s the problem: when I keep “going with the flow,” I’m usually the one drowning.
I let the comments slide. I ignore the red flags. I downplay the knots in my stomach. I tell myself:
- “It’s not worth the fight.”
- “Don’t be dramatic.”
- “Just let it go.”
But I’m not really letting it go. I’m swallowing it.
And all of that builds up inside me—until something small tips the scale and I snap. Then I walk away feeling ashamed of my reaction, while completely skipping over the hundred boundary violations that led up to it.
After a conflict, my heart hurts. My chest physically aches. I replay every word. I wonder if I overreacted, if I’m the problem, if I’m somehow broken.
That’s not just overthinking. That’s PTSD.
When Friends Trigger Old Wounds
The hardest part is when the hurt doesn’t come from a romantic partner—but from a friend.
I don’t get into arguments often. I really do try to forgive, move forward, and keep things light. But when something hits that old nerve—when I feel mocked, pushed, cornered, or intentionally antagonized—it links right back to those years of being married to a narcissist.
Suddenly it’s not just about this one argument.
It’s about:
- Every time I was made to feel “crazy” for having a feeling.
- Every time I apologized just to stop the fight.
- Every time I wished someone would simply say, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
So when this friend doubled down after I apologized—when they chose to keep hurting instead of healing—it stung in a very old, very deep place.
Part of me wants to be the bigger person, rise above, ignore their hurtful words and actions. But if I’m honest? That “ignore it” approach ends up eating me alive.
Boundaries Are Not Meanness
Here’s what I’m slowly, painfully learning:
- Having boundaries doesn’t make me mean.
- Saying “that hurt me” doesn’t make me dramatic.
- Walking away from someone’s repeated disrespect doesn’t make me unforgiving.
- Refusing to be antagonized is not overreacting.
It makes me healthy.
For people who were conditioned to be people pleasers, boundaries often feel like betrayal—of others, and even of our old identity.
We were praised for being “nice,” “flexible,” “easygoing.” No one clapped for us when we said, “That’s not okay with me.”
So today, instead of trying to be the “cool girl” who lets everything slide, I’m trying to become the woman who:
- Notices the discomfort early, instead of waiting until she explodes.
- Speaks up the first or second time, not the tenth.
- Gives one sincere apology—but doesn’t chase people who weaponize her vulnerability.
- Honors her feelings instead of gaslighting herself.
What I Want If You See Yourself in This
If you’re reading this and nodding along—if you, too, feel guilty every time you set a boundary—I want you to know:
You’re not weak because this is hard.
You are not “behind” because you’re still struggling years later.
You are unwinding years of programming that told you:
- Everyone else comes first.
- Your discomfort doesn’t matter.
- Your role is to absorb other people’s moods.
That doesn’t disappear just because the divorce papers were signed.
Healing is not linear. Sometimes it shows up in ugly ways—like shouting at a friend and crying on the drive home, wondering how you got there.
But that eruption is also data.
It’s your body saying, “Something here is not okay for me. I’ve been trying to tell you.”
What I’m Working On Moving Forward
I don’t have all the answers. I’m still very much in this with you.
But here’s what I’m trying to practice now:
- Micro-boundaries. Instead of waiting until I’m boiling, I’m learning to say, “Hey, that didn’t feel good,” when it’s still a simmer.
- Checking safety. Not everyone is a safe person for deep vulnerability. If someone repeatedly mocks, dismisses, or antagonizes me, that’s not a “friendship problem”—it’s a values problem.
- Owning my reaction, not their behavior. I can take responsibility for shouting without excusing the repeated poking that pushed me there.
- Letting apologies be enough. I can apologize once sincerely. If someone uses that as an opening to attack me further, that tells me everything I need to know.
- Honoring my nervous system. If my heart is racing, my chest is tight, and I feel that trauma response—that matters. My body is not lying to me.
One Last Thing
My heart hurts after conflict. I feel it physically. And when someone I care about chooses to wound instead of repair, it reopens old scars.
But perhaps the invitation in all of this is not to become harder—but to become clearer.
Clearer about what I will and won’t tolerate.
Clearer about who gets access to me.
Clearer about the fact that my peace is not up for debate.
I’m still learning. I still slip back into people-pleasing. I still sometimes stay quiet until I can’t anymore.
But eight years after divorcing a narcissist, here’s what I know for sure:
I am worth protecting.
My boundaries matter.
And loving myself means listening when my heart says, This is not okay.
If that’s where you are too, you’re not alone. We can learn this together—one boundary at a time.
Year of Thorns 