LOVE & BOUNDARIES 💌

AND THE INCONVENIENT TRUTH ABOUT SILENCE

“Boundaries do not mean silence.
Compassion does not require withdrawal.
And love without communication is not love — it’s convenience.”

These words came to me not in a moment of triumph, but in a moment of quiet reckoning. The kind that arrives somewhere between a sleepless night and a too-quiet morning. The kind that makes you question how much of your voice you’ve silenced in the name of keeping someone else comfortable.

I didn’t write them to be wise. I wrote them to stay sane.
To remind myself that love should never require self-erasure.
That waiting in silence isn't the same as holding space — it’s just very lonely.
And that being understanding shouldn’t mean becoming unrecognisable to yourself.

But the truth is: I didn’t arrive at this clarity on my own.

This post is inspired by another writer here on Substack — one I was only introduced to recently, but who instantly felt like a voice I’d been waiting to hear. Her name is Tamara, and you can find her work here: MuseGuided on Substack.

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She writes with a kind of beauty, bravery, and bone-deep relatability that made me sit up, reread sentences, and whisper “yes” out loud more than once. I am in awe of her talent and deeply grateful for the way her words stirred something in mine. If you don’t already subscribe, do yourself a favour and do so. Trust me — it’s pure nourishment for thinking hearts.

She reminded me—no, jolted me into remembering that wanting more is not shameful.
That shrinking to be palatable is not maturity.
And that silence, though often praised, is not always noble. Sometimes, it’s just… convenient.

So, consider this piece a kind of love letter to those of us who’ve waited too long in the wrong places.
Who’ve mistaken emotional hunger for intimacy.
Those who have confused self-abandonment with devotion.

This is about boundaries, compassion, and the myth that love can live without words.
Spoiler: it can’t.

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Boundaries have become oddly fashionable these days — modern-day mantras wrapped in pastel fonts on Instagram stories. “Protect your energy.” “Don’t apologise for putting yourself first.” “You don’t owe anyone access to you.” And yes, there’s truth in those reminders. Yet boundaries, when stripped of nuance, can also become misused tools. Sometimes they’re not about protection at all — but control, evasion, or even passive aggression with a spiritual facelift.

Boundaries get a bad reputation. Some people think setting them is about putting up walls, drawing lines in the sand, or slamming doors with theatrical flair. But the truth is, real boundaries are not about distance — they’re about dignity.

I used to equate silence with strength. I thought biting my tongue was a form of maturity. That giving space—this endless space—was proof of my compassion. That staying quiet when I wanted to scream was somehow virtuous.

Second spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

Silence, when used as a boundary, can be healing. But silence used as a substitute for honesty? That’s emotional avoidance dressed up as grace.

Boundaries don’t mean, “I’m shutting you out.”
They mean, “I’m inviting you in on respectful terms.”

The problem is that we’ve started using the language of boundaries to mask avoidance. “I need space” often means “I don’t want to deal with this.” “I’m protecting my peace” sometimes means “I don’t want to be accountable.” There’s a difference between setting a limit and dodging responsibility. And while silence can be a boundary, it’s not a particularly honest one unless it’s clearly communicated. Otherwise, it’s just another way of saying, “I don’t care enough to stay present.”

Used well, boundaries protect connection. They say: here’s how I can love you without losing me. They are doors with actual doorknobs on both sides. But when weaponised, they become walls. And no one feels safe behind a wall — not even the one who built it.

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What I didn’t realise, for far too long, was that I’d confused compassion with disappearing. I told myself that kindness meant swallowing my needs. That patience meant accepting confusion. That if I could just understand their pain well enough, I wouldn’t have to speak of my own. I disappeared so they could feel more whole. I went quiet so they wouldn’t have to stretch. I made room. Again and again. Until I was the only one standing in it, feeling very lonely.

At some point in my life, I started confusing compassion with erasure. I thought being kind meant not having needs. That understanding someone else’s wounds meant ignoring my own. That if I just waited long enough, loved hard enough, gave enough space, the person would come around.

But compassion without self-respect is not compassion.
It’s martyrdom with better PR.

I’ve often tried to be “the bigger person,” but sometimes that just meant becoming a smaller version of myself. Softer. Quieter. Diminished. As if my voice were an inconvenience. As if asking for consistency was too much.

Turns out, it’s not too much.
It’s just inconvenient for the wrong person.

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And here’s where it gets complicated, because I do believe people are doing the best they can from where they stand. I understand that perception is a kind of truth. That we each live inside stories shaped by old wounds, survival instincts, and internal wiring. Two people can experience the same moment and walk away with radically different truths. That doesn’t make either one of them dishonest. Just human.

But even so, I’ve learned that while I can respect someone’s truth, I don’t have to disappear inside it. I don’t have to make myself invisible to keep the peace. I don’t have to play the understanding saint while quietly starving for reciprocity. Compassion without boundaries becomes codependency. And love, without a voice, becomes martyrdom.

No one should have to shrink to be loved. No one should be praised for becoming easy to ignore.

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Of course, the real unraveling began when I had to face what communication, or the lack of it, actually says. Because love that isn’t spoken aloud doesn’t grow. It rusts. And while connection might begin in silence — a glance, a gesture, a feeling — it cannot be sustained there.

I don’t care how poetic your connection is. If you’re not talking, you’re not loving — you’re guessing. You’re decoding silences, interpreting emojis, and replaying memories like forensic evidence.

Love without communication is like buying a plant and never watering it — and then wondering why it’s wilting.

I’ve been on the receiving end of that kind of love, the kind that shows up in memories and music, in between the lines, but rarely in real-time conversations. And I have tried to survive on that kind of love.

Spoiler alert #3: you can’t.
You can only learn to crave less.
To settle.
To call the ache “romantic.”

But trust me, it’s not.

There’s nothing noble about constantly guessing how someone feels. There’s nothing brave about refusing to communicate, especially when someone else is trying to meet you halfway. If love is oxygen, then communication is the act of breathing. Without it, everything suffocates — no matter how beautiful it once was.

I used to rationalise the silences. I filled them with meaning, gave them the benefit of the doubt. “He’s overwhelmed.” “He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.” “He’s not good with words.” And maybe all those things were true. But at some point, I had to ask the harder question: If I were really a priority, would it still be this quiet?

Love — the real kind — doesn’t hide in ambiguity. It doesn’t demand psychic abilities. It just does not wait silently in the background while you try to prove you’re worth reaching out to. Love speaks. Not always fluently, not always perfectly, but willingly. And consistently.

Anything else is simply convenience. Familiarity. Maybe even fear. But it isn’t love. At least not the kind that sustains. Not the kind that builds.

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So, where does that leave me?

In a different place than I once was — not bitter, not broken, but far less willing to make myself small in the name of being chosen. I’ve stopped romanticising potential. I’ve stopped translating absence into depth. I’ve stopped imagining that silence is proof of mystery instead of avoidance.

Honestly? I am in a better place than I expected.
Because here’s what I’ve realised:

I want real love, not poetic limbo.
I want a connection that isn’t measured in delayed replies and mental gymnastics.
I want a “yes” that sounds like a “yes,” not a “maybe, someday, if things were different.”

And if that makes me demanding, hell, I’ll take it.
I would rather be too much for someone else than not enough for myself.

I want love that shows up. That speaks, even when it’s uncomfortable. That says, “This matters to me,” not just through memories or music or metaphors, but through real-life presence. I want clarity. I want courage. I want “I’m here,” not “you should have known.”

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If you recognise yourself in any part of this — whether as the one who quietly disappeared or the one who waited far too long in that silence — this isn’t written to accuse you.
And it’s certainly not written to play the victim. That’s not who I am.

It’s written because I’ve spent a long time trying to make sense of something that didn’t make sense out loud. I’ve had to grieve not just what was lost, but what was never said.
And that kind of grief is strange — it’s not loud or dramatic. It’s quiet. Persistent. It lives in your body. It moves in like fog. And one day you realise you’ve been trying to build a relationship with someone’s potential instead of their presence.

For so long, I tried to rationalise the silence. I told myself stories about timing, fear, emotional complexity, and even spiritual growth. I practiced empathy like it was a full-time job, trying to understand the other person’s perspective, needs, wounds, and I do understand. All of it. I really do. I know that perception shapes reality, and that people make choices based on the stories they believe about themselves and the world.

But here’s what I have also come to understand:
While I can hold space for someone else’s story, I don’t have to erase mine in the process.

Compassion doesn’t mean I stop existing.
Understanding doesn’t require me to vanish.
And love — at least the kind I want and need — does not ask me to stay small so someone else can stay comfortable.

And again: To the one who might read this and see themselves, I don’t write this to accuse. I write this to reclaim.

Because somewhere along the way, I lost my voice trying to keep someone else comfortable.

But not anymore.

My heart is still open.
My compassion is still intact.
My humour, thankfully, is still sarcastic.

But my silence?
That I’m saving for peaceful mornings, not painful relationships.

I have a voice that matters!

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🎶My Song for you

Is this amazing one by Justin Timberlake feat. Chris Stapleton. It is beautifully soulful, conflicted, and emotionally raw — a perfect echo of this letter.

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For more good music, go to this Spotify playlist where you can find all the songs from the Change & Evolve Letters!

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📚My Poem for you

Is by Mary Oliver (1925—2019)

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

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👀Impression

This is from one of my visits to Brighton…

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Do you struggle with setting boundaries? How do you resolve or deal with boundaries?

Let me know your thoughts in the comments, leave a ❤️, or send me a message. I always love hearing from you.

Wishing you a weekend filled with love, compassion, and great communication, wherever you are.

Yours

Tanja 🤗

PS. You can now also find my podcast on Spotify

Change & Evolve and feel free to get in touch