Boundaries or Avoidance?
When self-protection turns into self-erasure.
A few weeks ago, I was talking with my new friend Sierra about boundaries — not in the abstract, Instagram-caption way, but in the way that you can only speak on if you’ve lived it. The kind that shows up in real relationships, real careers, real rooms. We were circling the same frustration: how often “discernment” is used to justify disappearing, and how frequently self-protection quietly demands that we play small. How often have we all been a version of the “good girl” (aka avoiding what we really want to do or say) that society tells us to be — the one that stays quiet, fades into the background, and only shows up when she can do for others? I know I’ve played into the level of avoidance more times that I’d like to admit.
What we kept coming back to was this: avoidance doesn’t just remove us from harm — it often removes us from ourselves. Professionally and personally, it asks us to shrink, to disappear gracefully, to take the exit without making too much noise. And then it congratulates us for having “good boundaries.”
That conversation stayed with me, because I’ve been watching this confusion everywhere — and I’ve been honest enough to see it in myself.
Somewhere along the way, boundaries stopped being a relational practice and became a personal brand. We no longer talk about them as something negotiated, contextual, and alive. We talk about them as declarations. As exits. As proof of emotional maturity. “I’m protecting my peace,” people say, as if peace were something so fragile it can only survive in isolation. “I don’t owe anyone access to me,” they insist, confusing autonomy with emotional disappearance.
Boundaries were never meant to erase us from the relational field.
They were meant to keep us intact within it. Boundaries in action are meant to be an invitation on how to engage, not a brick wall keeping everyone out.
In my life, I’ve learned to understand the necessity of boundaries deeply. I’ve watched people overgive themselves into resentment. I’ve seen caretakers disappear under the weight of everyone else’s needs. I’ve seen what happens when people stay in relationships that slowly hollow them out. Fuck, I’ve been in those relationships myself; the ones where you start to look at yourself in the mirror and can’t recognize the person staring back at you. The reality is, we have to view boundaries with nuance and duality. When done properly? Boundaries can be lifesaving. They can be reparative. They can make a relationship possible again. But the alternative? Boundaries become a facade where we hide our true wants, needs, and desires — most often from ourselves.
What I’m increasingly curious about are boundaries used to avoid discomfort rather than navigate it. Language polished enough to justify withdrawal. A cultural permission slip to disengage without accountability — especially when staying would require vulnerability, grief, or the risk of being misunderstood.
And context matters. We are living in a moment of profound relational fatigue. People are burned out, under-resourced, and quietly grieving the loss of the community they were promised but never received. In that landscape, detachment feels safer than engagement. Silence feels cleaner than repair. Distance feels like dignity.
But not everything that feels relieving is actually regulating.
This is where the popular “let them” philosophy enters the conversation — and I want to be careful here, because discernment is real. There are times when not chasing, not explaining, not contorting yourself is absolutely the right choice. But when “let them” becomes a reflex instead of a decision, it stops being wisdom and starts being avoidance. It becomes a way to bypass grief. A way to numb the ache of wanting to be seen. A way to pretend indifference where there is still longing.
And that brings me to a friendship I had to let go of — one that taught me the difference the hard way.
For a long time, I stayed in that relationship believing that if I could just provide the right context, something would shift. If I explained myself more clearly. If I softened my delivery. If I translated my intentions into language that felt easier for them to digest. I told myself this was care. Maturity. Repair.
What it actually was, in hindsight, was overfunctioning.
I remember the moment it clicked — not dramatically, but quietly. I realized the person I was trying so hard to explain myself to had already made up their mind about who I was. Their story about me was written. My context wasn’t missing; it was simply unwanted. And with that realization came a grief that surprised me — not just about the friendship, but about how much of myself I had been offering up for interpretation.
That was the boundary.
Not the leaving — but the stopping.
Stopping the performance.
Stopping the explanation.
Stopping the quiet self-erasure disguised as patience.
Walking away wasn’t clean or triumphant. It didn’t feel empowering in the way social media loves to frame these moments. It felt sad. I cried a lot. The act of walking away wasn’t quick or sudden, it took time. But you know what? I also felt relief. I felt I deep honesty to myself that I hadn’t felt in a long time. What made it a boundary — rather than avoidance — was that I had already stayed. I had already spoken. I had already tried to be known.
Leaving wasn’t about protecting my peace from discomfort.
It was about protecting my integrity from distortion.
And this is the distinction we keep missing.
Avoidance asks us to disappear before we’ve been honest.
Discernment comes after we’ve told the truth and been shown it won’t be received.
One requires shrinking.
The other requires self-trust.
We live in a culture that rewards disappearance. Ghosting is normalized. Cutting people off is celebrated. Staying — even staying long enough to be clear — is framed as weakness. But staying with integrity, when it’s possible, is one of the most emotionally mature acts there is. It requires regulation. Differentiation. The ability to hold yourself steady in the presence of another person’s disappointment or misunderstanding.
And sometimes staying doesn’t mean remaining in the relationship.
Sometimes it means staying with yourself long enough to know why you’re leaving.
This is where boundaries return to their original purpose — not as exits, but as containers. Not as shields, but as structures that allow us to remain present without losing ourselves. They don’t demand silence. They don’t require us to shrink professionally or personally. They don’t ask us to disappear to prove we’re healed.
They ask us to be clear.
So here’s the truth I keep coming back to — the one that keeps cutting through the noise:
If your “boundary” requires you to play small, disappear, or self-erase, it isn’t discernment.
It’s avoidance asking for applause.
And the work of unlearning is remembering this:
boundaries were never meant to help us vanish.
They were meant to help us remain — intact, visible, and in relationship with ourselves first.
If this landed
If this essay stirred something — if it named a tension you’ve been holding without language — you’re not alone. This piece is part of an ongoing series I’m writing called The Practice of Unlearning, where I’m examining the stories we’ve been sold about healing, wellness, boundaries, and selfhood — and what it costs us to keep believing them.
You can read the earlier essays in this series here:
The Practice of Unlearning — An Introduction— an introduction to the work, the rage, and the hope beneath it
The Weaponization of Wellness — on how self-care became self-surveillance, and what it will take to reclaim it
The Reference Room — a living archive of books, essays, and thinkers to explore alongside this work
These essays are not meant to be consumed quickly or agreed with easily. They’re meant to be sat with. Returned to. Argued with. Let into the body.
If you’re here, you’re already doing the work — not of fixing yourself, but of unlearning what never should have been asked of you in the first place.