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“Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom.” ~ Lao Tzu
It was unnoticeable at first, but somehow staring me right in the face.
I had just turned fifty, a milestone birthday, and my then-boyfriend had promised me a handbag. Not an extravagant one, just something thoughtful and meaningful. A keepsake to mark the occasion. We’d even agreed on a price range. It wasn’t about the gift itself so much as the sentiment—that I mattered enough for something lasting.
But as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that the birthday handbag was more of a breadcrumb than a promise. I shared the unfolding disappointment with a few close girlfriends, first with excited anticipation, then with mounting frustration. I even mentioned the specific brand I was hoping for—the one I thought was coming.
And then, something strange happened.
One of those friends—the one who always seems just a little too curated—showed up to dinner carrying a new handbag. From the exact brand I had been waiting on. My heart sank a little, but my mind raced. Surely it wasn’t intentional…right? But the timing, the label, the pride with which she swung it over her shoulder—it was all so subtle, yet deliberate.
I felt perplexed, a little sad, and quietly annoyed.
This wasn’t just about a handbag anymore—it was something deeper that I was finally beginning to see.
That night, something clicked. Not in a dramatic, movie-moment kind of way—more like a quiet untying of a knot that had been there for a while. I began to revisit our friendship through a new lens. The small moments, the subtle shifts, the conversations where I’d walk away feeling a little less seen.
It was never overt—she was clever, socially polished, the kind of person who always knew the right thing to say. But slowly, I realised: there was often a quiet one-upmanship at play. I had been open, vulnerable, even a little naive with her at times. Meanwhile, she remained calculated, always observing, rarely revealing. The handbag was just the first thing I couldn’t explain away.
“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” ~ Carl Jung
As I sat with that realisation, I wasn’t angry so much as disoriented. How had I not seen it before? The way she curated her place in every social group with quiet precision. The way she always had the inside scoop on everyone else’s life while revealing almost nothing about her own. She was the kind of friend people confided in, admired, even leaned on, but rarely questioned. And I had been no different—until that moment.
What I was beginning to understand was something more subtle: the difference between connection and control, between closeness and calculated presence.
It wasn’t just the handbags or the missed birthday promise—it was a pattern I’d unconsciously accepted. A dynamic where I stayed emotionally open and available, while she remained slightly out of reach, always with the upper hand.
Awareness can be disorienting at first. It shifts the ground beneath relationships you thought were stable. But it’s also a gift. Once you begin to see clearly, you can’t unsee—and that’s where your power begins. Not in confrontation or drama, but in the quiet reclamation of your own boundaries.
In the weeks that followed, I didn’t make any grand declarations. There was no dramatic falling out, no heartfelt confrontation over dinner. Instead, I quietly began to reorient myself—not around her, but around me. The truth was, this wasn’t just about her behaviour. It was about what I had come to accept. About the part of me that had long believed I had to stay open and accommodating in order to be liked, to be safe, to belong.
Realising that stirred something in me—not bitterness, but a deeper sense of self-worth. I started asking different questions. What do I need to feel emotionally safe in a friendship? Where am I giving too much of myself in the hope of being understood? And most importantly: What would it feel like to protect my peace, even in the face of subtle power plays?
My boundaries didn’t come in the form of distance or disconnection—they came in stillness.
I stopped oversharing. I let silences be silences. I didn’t fill the space with reassurance or small talk when something felt off. I allowed myself to be a little harder to read, a little more reserved. Not to play games, but to balance the dynamic. To remind myself that I didn’t need to perform vulnerability to stay connected.
And something unexpected happened: I felt lighter. Less tangled in the unspoken tension. More centred in who I was—and less reactive to who she chose to be.
The friendship remained, but I was no longer at its mercy.
If you’ve ever found yourself questioning a friendship that, on the surface, looks perfectly fine—trust that quiet tug. Sometimes, what unsettles us isn’t drama or betrayal, but the slow, silent realisation that we’ve been minimising ourselves to keep a dynamic intact.
Boundaries aren’t always loud.
Sometimes, they’re simply you deciding to speak a little less, to hold your energy a little closer, to choose what parts of yourself get revealed and to whom. It’s not cold. It’s not passive-aggressive. It’s self-respect.
So if you’re feeling that gentle discomfort in a relationship, take it as an invitation not to withdraw in fear, but to rise in awareness. To come home to the truth of who you are. To honour the part of you that knows your value doesn’t depend on how much you give, how much you share, or how much you allow yourself to shrink in order to maintain the peace.
Because you deserve friendships that honour your worth as much as you do.
~
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