Most people would probably say I’m a nice guy, polite, friendly, easygoing, and good at conversation and meeting new people. I have been told I’m a good listener and approachable, with a good sense of humor, and I make myself easy to be around. And yet, if I dig deeper for a few minutes, there’s a steel wall not far behind the surface. It’s not visible to everyone, but it’s there and rigid, deliberate, and built over time. It keeps people far enough away that they don’t get close enough to cause damage. I will let them in if and when I am comfortable, and slowly, methodically. I don’t play the victim card because I am not one, but I am careful with people and more cautious than I have ever been. And, I like it that way.
Suppose you’ve lived through betrayal, slander, brutalization, dehumanization, manipulation, or the slow erosion of trust by people who claimed to care about you. In that case, you probably have your own version of that wall. Mine wasn’t built in a day. It went up piece by piece—through whispered slander that found its way back to me and deeply damaged my reputation among a peer group, and obligations that felt more like guilt traps than genuine relationships, and through the gut-deep realization that the more I opened up, the more some people used it as leverage, not connection. It went up from doing too many favors for people way above and beyond the call of duty because I felt bad karma would strike me if I didn’t. Curiously, they never reciprocated in any way but wanted more favors and more often. And when I finally started saying no, they raged and I was the bad guy. It went up through things I won’t get into here. Not now. Maybe not ever. It went up trying to explain to people what I do for a living and have done for many years. They inexplicably still think I am some guy trying to sell articles on spec to literary magazines for $25, as one person said. They tell all their friends that I think I want to be some sort of writer, and wonder when I will get a real job. I rarely hear from those people now that I have relocated, but if they text, I direct them to my blogs and LinkedIn profile if they ask about work. I never do the initial contact and rarely say much back. Being in touch with them still makes me uncomfortable because their slander caused considerable damage as the falsehoods spread and took on a life of its own with all the embellishments.
There’s an inevitable fatigue that comes with constantly trying to be understood. You think, maybe this time I’ll explain myself better. Maybe if I give people more context—why I made that choice, why I said no, why I need time to myself—they’ll get it. But often, instead of empathy, what you get is advice laced with control. “You should do this.” “What you really need to do is that.” And their version of your life is always better aligned with their comfort than my truth.
After a while, I stopped oversharing and stopped seeking approval (a by-product of growing up in an alcoholic environment). I still smile and do it more than ever. I still love people and do things for them, like holding the door open and greeting them with a warm hello. However, I keep my deeper self under lock and key, not because I’m cold or uncaring, but because I’ve learned the cost of being vulnerable with the wrong people. It’s not bitterness, but it is boundaries and caution.
And yes, boundaries can look like distance. They can look like someone who’s friendly to everyone but deeply private about their pain, their dreams, their inner life. This isn’t about blaming others for my guardedness, either. At some point, I had to own that I let the wrong people in. That I chased validation instead of peace, and that I mistook connection for obligation. It’s taken me years even to start unlearning that. I have my flaws, believe me, yet I look back and wonder why I let certain people into my life as much as I did, and why I didn’t stand up for myself a lot earlier. I’m a work in progress.
I used to think I owed people explanations, that if they asked a personal question, I was being rude if I didn’t answer, that declining an invite meant I had to offer a compelling reason or else face judgment, and that setting boundaries made me difficult or selfish. However, I’ve realized something simpler: I don’t owe anyone access to the parts of me that are still healing or have already healed. There’s a quiet strength in showing up as kind without being consumed and in saying “no” without a speech. In listening and taking a genuine interest in people without feeling pressured to spill my own story in a lot of detail. Some walls aren’t built out of bitterness or anger but out of wisdom. And here’s the twist: often, the people most offended by my boundaries are the ones who benefited most from me not having any, or few. They want me to go back to my easily-manipulated, lay a guilt-trip on me; I’ll give in and do it, self. So yes, I’m nice but no longer wide open and the person I used to be. And that’s not a flaw. Will I ever deconstruct that wall and allow people in? Yes, I am doing it slowly one small piece at a time and when I am ready.
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