There’s a story people tell themselves when they don’t like your “no.”
They reach for a label. A shortcut. A neat little box that makes your clarity feel like a character flaw.
And I’ve learned something the hard way: the moment you become firm—especially after years of over-explaining, people-pleasing, or swallowing your needs—your self-respect can get mistaken for ego.
But what looks like “cold” from the outside is often something far more human on the inside.
It’s fear.
It’s history.
It’s my inner child trying to survive.
Boundaries aren’t a power move—they’re a safety plan
I don’t set boundaries because I think I’m better than anyone.
I set boundaries because my nervous system has lived long enough to know what happens when I don’t.
A boundary isn’t a weapon.
A boundary is a door.
It’s how I say:
“I’m willing to stay connected, but not at the cost of abandoning myself.” “I can love you and still disagree with you.” “I can listen, but I won’t accept being reduced to a verdict.”
People who benefited from my silence don’t always know what to do with my clarity.
So they call it “too much.”
They call it “difficult.”
They call it “defensive.”
But most of the time, it’s not aggression. It’s protection.
The inner child wound underneath my defensiveness
Let me be honest: I can be defensive.
Not because I enjoy conflict.
Not because I can’t reflect.
Not because I’m incapable of accountability.
But because somewhere inside me is a younger version of me who learned this:
When I don’t feel safe, I need to protect myself fast.
My defensiveness isn’t about winning.
It’s about not being harmed again.
It’s the reflex of someone who has been misunderstood, blamed, or emotionally cornered before—someone who knows how quickly a conversation can turn into a sentence.
When I sense danger—raised voices, accusations, disrespect, twisting my words—my body doesn’t experience it as “a disagreement.”
My body experiences it as: unsafe.
And fear rushes in.
Fear isn’t my personality—it’s a protective mechanism
Here’s what I wish people understood:
Sometimes my “strong” tone is not a flaw.
It’s an alarm.
It’s the part of me that learned to speak up because staying quiet didn’t keep me safe.
It’s the part of me that says:
“Don’t let them define you.” “Don’t let them rewrite you.” “Don’t let them corner you into apologizing for existing.”
And yes—sometimes fear gets to the microphone before my softness can arrive.
But fear showing up doesn’t mean I lack love.
It means I have a past.
I’m not asking to be excused—I’m asking to be understood
I’m not writing this to attack anyone.
I’m writing it because labels can become a lazy substitute for real understanding. They can be used to silence, simplify, and dismiss a whole person.
There’s a difference between:
“I need control.” and “I need respect.”
I’m not trying to control anyone.
I’m trying to protect the parts of me that spent too long believing I had to earn basic kindness.
The truth: I reflect. I care. I feel.
The clearest proof that I’m not who someone’s label says I am is this:
I question myself.
I examine my patterns.
I feel remorse when I’m wrong.
I want repair—not punishment.
I want clarity—not chaos.
I don’t want to dominate a conversation.
I want to be met with enough care that I don’t have to armor up just to exist in it.
What I need in love to feel safe
This is the part my inner child has been trying to say, sometimes clumsily, sometimes too loudly, sometimes through tears she didn’t know how to name:
I feel safe in love when…
My “no” is respected the first time—not negotiated, mocked, or tested.
My feelings aren’t put on trial. You can disagree with me without making me feel crazy for feeling.
My words aren’t twisted. If something lands wrong, ask me what I meant before deciding what I am.
Repair matters more than pride. I need someone who can come back, soften, and own their part.
Tone isn’t used as a trap. I’m allowed to be emotional without it becoming “proof” that I’m irrational.
Consistency exists. Love can’t be warm one day and punishing the next.
Curiosity leads the conversation. Not interrogation. Not accusations. Not character assassination.
I’m met—especially when I’m vulnerable. Not dismissed, avoided, or made to feel “too much.”
And if we can’t offer that to each other, then what we’re calling “love” becomes something else—something that slowly teaches the nervous system to brace instead of open.
What I’m learning as I heal
I’m learning that boundaries don’t need a courtroom to be valid.
I’m learning that not everyone deserves access to my softness.
I’m learning that my inner child doesn’t need to scream to be protected—she needs consistency.
So when fear rises, I’m practicing pausing.
I’m practicing asking myself:
“Am I in danger, or am I in a trigger?” “What is this reminding me of?” “What would make me feel safe right now?”
And I’m practicing saying this out loud:
“I’m willing to talk—but not while I’m being labeled.”
Closing: I’m not hard—I’m healing
If you’ve misunderstood me, here is the simplest truth:
I’m not empty.
I’m not cruel.
I’m not superior.
I’m guarded, because I’ve had to be.
I’m firm, because I’m rebuilding trust with myself.
And if my boundaries make someone uncomfortable, that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
It might just mean I’m no longer available for the version of love that required me to shrink.
I’m not here to be easy to handle.
I’m here to be real—and safe inside my own skin.
Hellènic Muse 