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If you are the type of person who is able to put on your own oxygen mask, literally and figuratively, before others’, read no further. You’re good. But if you, like many women, are so accustomed to attending to others’ needs first that you draw a blank when you are advised to “set boundaries” and “just say no” to requests, or to “be kind to yourself first,” you may want to look behind these aphorisms to figure out how to get there. Why is it so difficult to put yourself first? What are some paths to getting past these roadblocks?
Roadblock 1: I have more capacity than others.
Because women often assume the role of caregivers and nurturers, they explicitly or implicitly absorb the message that their capacity is great, if not limitless, and they can take on one more thing while others have—dare I say, human—limits like getting sick, being tired, or needing special care or attention. They may even learn to be proud of their capacity and link their identity to it—the Superwoman. Over time, this erodes their capacity (yes, that word again) to think of their own needs and to see themselves as human, with normal human needs. Needless to say, this self-image can be damaging to the body, mind, and spirit, denying one’s own full humanity. So how do we reverse this?
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Say to yourself—literally say it—when someone asserts their needs and you feel the pull to respond, “I have my own problems.” Go on, say it. “I have my own needs.” You might still consider whether you want to help your friend or neighbor, but at least you’ve put your own needs into the equation. Do you really want to pick up that text right now? Say it with me—”I have my own problems.” (If you don’t have any problems, skip this section, but I suspect you do.)
Now, rather than think of your huge capacity to be there for others, this muscle you’ve built up so much from overuse that it is like a distorted bodybuilder’s, think about your atrophied capacity to attend to yourself. That muscle has shrunken to where you can barely lift a Q-tip. So say to yourself, “I need to build my capacity to care for myself.” Muscle building takes reps, so do your homework as if you’re going to the gym. Build that muscle.
Roadblock 2: If I don’t acknowledge my own needs, they won’t seem as overwhelming.
This is a good example of denying your own humanity. It is scary to see oneself as a whole, with all the vulnerabilities and fears, and the parts that may not be so pretty. But embracing yourself wholly is liberating, like exhaling and letting it just be, just exist. You may say to yourself, “Boy, I’m in an ugly mood today.” Go on, say it louder. That wasn’t so bad, was it? From a neuropsychological standpoint, when you state negative feelings, the raw feelings that are generated in the brain’s amygdala, the seat of fear and aggression, become less intense, and the cerebral cortex, the thinking outer layer of the brain, takes over, diminishing the reaction of the amygdala. Called the “name it to tame it” strategy, I use this a lot as a parent to calm my worries and fears, and I teach it to my students as well.
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Paradoxically, explicitly stating the less acceptable parts of oneself will help you see them as part of being human. At that point, you don’t really need aphorisms like “be kind to yourself.” Seeing yourself from that perspective rather than adopting a false sense of empowerment (e.g., “I am Superwoman”) will naturally evoke more compassion for yourself and help you recognize and respond to your own needs.
Roadblock 3: Things will fall apart if I don’t respond to others’ needs.
Remember the muscle analogy: Just as your muscle to respond to others’ needs is overdeveloped, the asserting-needs muscle of others is fully, if not over-, developed. This means that if you are not there to respond, they will have the inclination and skills to look elsewhere for help. What about the kids, you say? Yes, you have to be there for your kids, but it’s also developmentally good for them to build their independence and problem-solving muscles. (OK, enough of this metaphor, but you get my drift.) Things don’t generally fall apart.
And, if they do, just a little, it’s OK. A little messiness can bring serendipity and new opportunities, one of which may be a new, freeing perspective on your own full humanity.
