“The only people who get upset when you set boundaries are the ones who benefited from you having none.” ~Unknown
For most of my life, I lived with a quiet ache, a longing I couldn’t quite name but always felt. I wanted to be chosen. Not just liked or tolerated, but fully seen, wanted, and loved.
That longing shaped so many of my choices. I over-gave in relationships, staying in situations far longer than I should have, and shrank myself to be accepted.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was trying to fill an emptiness that had started years before, an emptiness born in silence and absence, in words left unsaid and emotions left unacknowledged.
You see, I grew up in a household that looked stable from the outside when, in reality, the opposite was the case.
My father was a brilliant and accomplished professor but emotionally unreachable. He was a provider, but not someone I could run to, laugh with, or open to. Our conversations rarely went beyond school and grades—never “How are you feeling?” or “What’s on your heart?”
Affection wasn’t part of the language we spoke at home. I learned early that performance was prized, but vulnerability was not. That I had to know things without asking, succeed without stumbling, and carry weight without complaint.
As a child, you don’t have the language for the emotional neglect that comes as a result of this, but you feel it in your body. You sense the void.
Even before I could articulate words, I felt more comfortable with paper than with people. I didn’t speak until I was four and carried a piece of paper everywhere I went, using it to express what I couldn’t say out loud.
Writing became my voice before I had one. But even that was dismissed. My father didn’t see value in it. And so, the message was reinforced again: What I loved didn’t matter. Who I was wasn’t enough.
And over time, I internalized that belief. I carried it into my teenage years and well into adulthood, thinking love had to be earned through sacrifice or silence.
I struggled with setting boundaries because I didn’t want to be “too much” and drive people away. I mistook people-pleasing for kindness, over-accommodation for loyalty, and emotional exhaustion for love.
My longing for connection often led me into relationships where I gave more than I received. I wanted so badly to be seen, to feel chosen, to matter to someone in the ways I never felt I did growing up.
But the more I sought love externally, the more disconnected I became from myself. My self-worth was tangled in how others treated me, how well I performed, how little I complained, and how much I could endure.
One of the most defining relationships of my life culminated in an engagement. At the time, it felt like a dream come true. Here was this successful, handsome man who made six figures and stood over six feet tall. And he chose me. He was also spiritual and into meditation, something I had been exploring with the Buddhists, so I felt this deep alignment with him. It felt like a sign that maybe I was finally enough to be loved fully.
But in hindsight, that relationship mirrored all the unresolved wounds I hadn’t yet faced. Without realizing it, I had found someone who was essentially my father, an engineer, emotionally unavailable, with a temper and narcissistic tendencies. I was literally about to marry my father. When it ended in 2014, it left me feeling like I had failed, not just in love, but in my identity.
I didn’t realize it then, but the engagement wasn’t just a romantic loss; it was the collapse of the illusion I had built to protect myself.
Prior to the engagement, I had already spent years performing at work, in friendships, and in love. The little girl who once ached to be seen had grown into a woman who poured herself into everything and everyone, just to feel worthy of being chosen.
At work, I became a relentless overachiever. I tied my value to performance, convinced that if I exceeded expectations, my bosses, my colleagues, anyone would have no choice but to love me. I wasn’t just doing my job; I was doing the most, all the time. Not from ambition, but from a quiet desperation.
But overgiving didn’t bring admiration; it brought disrespect. I ended up with bosses who were bullies. I remember one vividly. I had worked hard on a project with a team, believing it would finally earn his approval. He looked at it once, then threw it in the trash right in front of me.
Still, I stayed. Still, I tried harder. Still, I chased the validation that never came. Because deep down, I thought I had to earn love. That if I just proved myself enough, someone would finally say, “You’re worth it.”
It wasn’t just at work. In friendships, I bent myself backwards to belong. I mirrored the habits of others just to stay close. If they drank, I drank. If they were into something I didn’t enjoy, I pretended to love it.
I mistook blending in for bonding. I didn’t know that a healthy connection doesn’t require self-erasure.
And in romantic relationships? The pattern deepened.
The first guy I dated was vulnerable, open, willing to truly see me. But I couldn’t handle it. His tenderness felt foreign, uncomfortable even.
Because I’d never known that kind of love. I didn’t think I deserved it. I told myself I wanted someone “edgier,” but the truth was, I was more familiar with emotional unavailability than emotional safety.
And so, I gravitated toward men who couldn’t love me well. Men who ignored me, mistreated me, made me feel small. I shrank to fit their needs.
I became who I thought they wanted—changing my interests, compromising my values, giving all of myself just to be chosen. And I settled. I accepted crumbs and called it a connection.
There was Matt, someone I’d known in college as a friend. When we started dating later, I thought maybe this was it. But he’d spend time talking about the women he found attractive right in front of me.
And Dustin, I paid for his flight to come see me when I lived in Texas. Even paid for a coach to help him find a better job. Not because I had to, but because somewhere inside, I believed that love could be bought.
After all, that’s what I had learned. My father gave gifts, not affection. Money, not presence. So I repeated the pattern, hoping financial sacrifice would lead to emotional intimacy.
I slept with men who didn’t care for me. I stayed with partners who didn’t choose me. I even cheated, sometimes with men who were already in other relationships because if they were willing to risk what they had for me, then maybe I mattered. Maybe I was special.
But the truth is, I was still that little girl with the paper in her hand, trying to speak a language no one around her understood. Still aching to be seen. Still hoping someone would say, “You are enough.”
These pains would then become the very ground where the seeds of transformation would be planted.
But healing didn’t come all at once. It came quietly, slowly.
At first, I didn’t know where to start. All I knew was that something had to change. I was tired of feeling stuck in the same cycle, repeating the same patterns, and finding myself in relationships that only brought more hurt.
I knew I needed space to figure out why I kept choosing unhealthy relationships and why I was drawn to people who couldn’t truly love me.
In early April of 2015, I made one of the hardest phone calls of my life. I called my mom to tell her I needed a break. None of us were familiar with boundaries back then, but I knew I had to find myself outside of my family’s influence. We both cried on that call. I couldn’t give her a timeframe as I had no idea how long this would take.
My dad didn’t take it well. Shortly after, he left me a voicemail, convinced I’d joined some kind of cult. He felt like I was turning my back on him. For almost two years, I kept my distance. I’d send cards on holidays, but I didn’t call or text. I needed that space to heal.
The first move I made was joining a twelve-step program aimed at breaking free from addiction. That’s where I met Gina. She became more than just a mentor, a guide.
She helped me dig deeper into the underlying issues I hadn’t acknowledged before. I also cut ties with people I thought were my friends because I realized they didn’t genuinely care about me. Instead, I slowly started building healthier relationships.
A big part of my journey was introspection. I started asking myself the hard questions:
Why do I keep picking unavailable men?
Why do I keep repeating the same toxic patterns?
What does a healthy relationship even look like?
It was uncomfortable, but I knew I had to figure out why I was drawn to those situations and how I could change. I wanted to understand my own behaviors and patterns so I could break free from the cycle.
I went to therapy, tried acupuncture to help me sleep, and even explored Buddhism to find some inner peace. I attended a Methodist church, hoping to reconnect with a sense of faith and community.
Showing up to these places on my own without the crutch of a friend or a partner was a huge step for me. I began to realize the strength in simply being present and curious on my own.
I also started exploring concepts that would change my perspective on relationships entirely. Someone introduced me to attachment theory and trauma bonding, and it was like a light bulb went off. Suddenly, I had names for the patterns I was trapped in.
I learned that I was “avoidant”—someone so terrified of being truly known because deep down, I didn’t believe I had anything worthwhile to offer. Yet I kept gravitating toward people who were emotionally withdrawn, just like my father. I had to chase them for any scrap of affection or attention. Later, I discovered this was called trauma bonding, where you develop feelings and loyalty toward someone who’s treating you poorly. It was a revelation that both devastated and freed me.
I read books by Brené Brown, went on retreats, and soaked up as much knowledge as I could. I was desperate to understand myself, so I kept asking questions, taking notes, and allowing myself to be vulnerable in safe spaces.
One of the biggest breakthroughs came when I realized how much anger I was holding onto. I remember a conversation with my mom. I was so angry that she kept trying to fix me or give me advice when all I needed was to just be. She’d send me books on anger management, text me inspirational quotes, or tell me what she thought was best for me. Every gesture felt like another reminder that who I was wasn’t enough.
That’s when it hit me: I didn’t just hate the advice. I was angry at myself, at my own patterns, at feeling stuck. I knew I couldn’t keep living like that, so I chose to take a two-year break from my family to sort through those emotions.
I wanted to connect with people not out of guilt or obligation, but because I genuinely wanted to be around them.
The shift was gradual, but I started to see progress when I could attend community events alone, like the Buddhism gatherings or church services. Those first few times, I felt terrified and hesitant, questioning whether I belonged there. But once I actually showed up, something shifted. I felt empowered in a way I’d never experienced before.
I was finally showing up as myself, not performing or trying to be what I thought others wanted. I was vulnerable and honest about when I wasn’t okay, and that honesty was freeing.
I came to terms with my relationship with my dad by forgiving him. I used to carry so much resentment, but I learned to see him for who he was, not who I wished he would be.
The full forgiveness came years later when I started my own relationship coaching business. I realized that without his emotional unavailability, without all that pain he caused, I wouldn’t have been driven to dig so deeply into my own wounds. In a strange way, he helped me find my calling and ironically, he hates that I’m a relationship coach now. There’s something deeply satisfying about finally being my own person. Since I’ve learned to accept myself, I can accept and forgive him fully. Acceptance didn’t mean agreeing or condoning his behavior, but it allowed me to let go of the hurt.
I could be around him without the weight of past pain.
Healing didn’t mean I stopped making mistakes, but I’ve learned to choose myself, to honor my feelings without needing validation from others.
And if you’re reading this, I want you to know: Healing is messy and nonlinear, but it’s worth it. You don’t have to perform for love. You don’t have to prove your worth. You just have to start slowly, with the smallest act of truth.
For me, that act of truth—what Martha Beck calls “the way to integrity” was the simple but profound realization that I didn’t have to earn love from my dad, my teachers, my bosses, or anyone else. I was worthy of love just by being me. What a relief that was.
About Dagmar Kusiak
Dagmar Kusiak is a certified transformational dating & relationship coach specializing in attachment styles, codependency, and nonviolent communication. After overcoming toxic cycles and rebuilding her self-worth, she now helps singles break the cycle of unhealthy patterns and build authentic, fulfilling relationships through her signature, Relationship BEAM Program. Dagmar has coached many and led workshops, guiding countless clients towards lasting change. Connect with her here.
