Learning to Be There for Myself

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I grew up in a household where my mother was overwhelmed by her life circumstances. She had endured three difficult births and found herself married to a man who, emotionally speaking, had never truly chosen fatherhood. Becoming a husband and a provider was something that happened to him—more an obligation he accepted than a life he actively embraced.

My father fulfilled what society expected of him. He worked, he provided, and he remained formally present. But emotionally, he was largely absent. Not only because of work, but because much of his energy went elsewhere—spending long hours away from home, often drinking with friends, living a life that still longed for freedom and adventure. When people allow others—or circumstance—to choose for them, resentment can quietly grow, and responsibilities are often carried without heart.

That absence shaped my mother deeply. She felt alone within her marriage, unsupported, exhausted, and emotionally overwhelmed. Over time, bitterness crept in—not as a flaw of character, but as a consequence of chronic emotional depletion. This was the environment into which I was born.

There is an idea shared in certain spiritual traditions: that we choose the context into which we are born, and that children arrive carrying an unspoken purpose in service of the family system. Whether one takes this idea literally or symbolically, it resonated with my experience. Growing up in a household heading toward divorce, I became acutely attuned to my mother’s emotional state. My attention was not oriented toward my own needs, but toward hers.

When a mother is overwhelmed, she cannot fully be there for her children. And so, often without realizing it, the roles quietly reverse. The children learn to be there for the parent. I learned early on that to receive my mother’s attention and care, I had two reliable options: I could be sick, or I could take care of her.

To be loved, I learned to forget about myself and attune to the needs of others. I learned to be “strong,” to be supportive, to be the good boy. I became an emotional companion to someone who truly needed one. But in doing so, I slowly lost myself.

When a child becomes a caregiver, he does so in search of safety. Beneath the appearance of maturity is fear—the fear that the fragile equilibrium of the environment could break at any moment, and that it is somehow his responsibility to hold it together. A child living with that fear does not feel free to play, explore, or take risks. Instead, he becomes vigilant, constantly working to secure love and stability.

When your purpose becomes maintaining harmony around you, there is little space left to take care of yourself. You do not ask what you want. Your emotions are set aside so that you can manage what an adult should be managing.

This dynamic intensified after my parents divorced. Almost overnight, we were effectively excluded from my father’s side of the family—the extended family we had belonged to. What remained was a small island: my mother, my two siblings, and me. Along with the emotional rupture came financial hardship, as my father struggled to sustain consistent support for his former family—some months helping as he could, and others passing without contact or assistance.

All of this had a profound impact on the adult I became.

In my relationships, I began to notice how easily I ignored my own needs while catering almost exclusively to the needs and desires of my partner. This was not a conscious choice; it was simply the way I knew how to be. Many of my relationships did not last more than a few months. When they ended, I often blamed my partners for being selfish or demanding, without recognizing the role I was playing.

If you are not in touch with your own needs and desires—if your inner life is organized around adaptation and caretaking—how can you hold your ground in a relationship? Healthy relationships require ongoing negotiation between closeness and autonomy, and between shared needs and individual ones. Both partners must be able to recognize and express their feelings, and remain willing to listen and respond as a team.

After many failed attempts, and through sustained introspection, I began to realize that I did not actually know what I wanted—or how to express it. Often, I was expecting the other person to somehow know what I needed without my having to name it. Accepting this was difficult. I felt ashamed of how disconnected I had become from myself.

What finally began to shift things was learning to stay with my own inner experience. At first, this was difficult. Sitting still meant confronting emotions and inner conflicts I had long set aside in my unconscious effort to please others. Through meditation and a sustained practice of self-reflection—guided by my training as a coach—I gradually developed the capacity to soothe myself. Over time, these practices became something more: a way to reconnect with and honor my own desires and needs, to accept myself, and to find clarity and agency where there had once only been adaptation.

In this sense, I understand today that real wellness begins with self-care and self-respect. If you are not there for yourself, sooner or later you will struggle to be there for others—either losing yourself and feeling depleted without knowing why, or resenting those you care about while trying to sustain connection.

As we move through a month that celebrates love and relationships, it may be worth remembering this: the most enduring relationship you will ever have is the one you cultivate with yourself.