Dear Narcissists: The Door Is That Way

WHY MY INNER PEACE IS DEPENDENT ON COFFEE AND BOUNDARIES

My entire life, I’ve been trained—coached even—to put everyone else’s needs above my own. I was taught that my siblings came first. Aunts and uncles came first. Distant relatives came first. Even people I barely knew came first. It didn’t matter how exhausted, sad, or empty I felt, if Jane and Joe needed something, I was supposed to drop everything and deliver.

And if I didn’t? Cue the guilt trip.

I spent years feeling guilty for the rare moments I dared to breathe, to rest, to drink a hot cup of coffee without someone else’s needs knocking on the door.

I have vivid memories of being manipulated into giving, bending, and sacrificing, even before I could recognize what was happening. My sister got my toys or games just because she wanted them. There’s only enough ice cream for your brothers to have it. I was told, “We can’t afford Christmas gifts for you, but after tax time, we’ll get you something extra special.”

Tax time came and went. A few times. My stepfather got a shiny new Alienware computer. I got to keep wearing clothes that didn’t fit.

I distinctly remember being told I was fat instead of offered new shorts.

That little girl still lives somewhere in me. And when I think about her—crying in too-tight clothes, desperate to feel wanted—I cry too. I remember what she thought:

“Mom will love me if I do this.”

“Maybe this time she’ll be proud.”

“Maybe she’ll finally follow through.”

She didn’t.

And if you ask anyone on that side of the family, they’ll tell you none of this happened. That I’m a liar. For a while, I started to believe it. Somewhere in my teens, I began preemptively telling the lies I knew they’d accuse me of. Why not? I was going to be punished for them either way. At least this way, I had some sort of control.

The wild thing is, I was a good teenager. My son is way more difficult to raise than I ever was. But still, I felt like a burden. Like feeding and clothing me was something I had to earn, not something I was owed.

I had been so thoroughly gaslit that I couldn’t see my own value.

I remember one night vividly. My mom had borrowed money from a friend to move into a townhouse. That friend was coming over for dinner the next day. Naturally, everything had to be spotless—but there were twelve loads of laundry piled halfway to the ceiling. And guess whose job it was? I stayed up all night reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, folding laundry between chapters. I fueled myself on cheap coffee and the hope that maybe this time, she’d see me. Appreciate me. At one point, I cried into the pile, thinking, “Maybe she’ll be happy if I get it all done.” I finished at sunrise. Went to bed. Woke up a few hours later to yelling that I’d slept in too late.

She only said thank you after I asked if she saw what I did.

It wasn’t sincere.

I was 14.

It wasn’t until my late 20s that I started to grow into myself. Years of trauma, anxiety, and depression had held me back. But something finally clicked. I entered my ME era. Still, I had to keep one foot grounded—I had two kids to raise. And I truly believe my husband was sent to save me. Without him, I don’t know if I ever would’ve realized how much I sacrificed just to keep the peace.

Being put down kept me small. And maybe that was the goal.

But my husband lifted me up—higher than I’d ever imagined—and helped me see that I deserved more than the chaos and pain I came from. He brought me coffee when I couldn’t get out of bed. He listened while I unraveled years of damage, one anxious sip at a time. The people in my past brought nothing but drama and toxicity. It festered around me like a red, oozing puss-bubble of bitterness. It was unbearable. There were moments where I didn’t think I could keep going.

Sometimes I think my mom blamed me for being born. Or maybe I look too much like my dad and she’s tired of seeing his face. Either way—none of it was my fault. I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t choose this.

She made choices that cost me my childhood. And that price was steep.

But now? Now I get to give my kids something different. I get to be the mom who’s emotionally present. Who sticks around for the hard conversations. Who apologizes when she messes up. Who listens. Who learns. Who grows.

I am their village.

Even when it’s hard.

And that’s where boundaries come in.

Setting boundaries was like switching from sugary gas station coffee to the good stuff: bitter at first, but exactly what I needed.

Narcissists, manipulators, and sociopaths hate boundaries. Setting them felt like setting fire to the house—but I didn’t care anymore. Let it burn. If you didn’t like it, there was the door.

And oh, how they hated the door.

It’s been six beautifully quiet years since we shut it.

My peace matters more. My kids matter more. I matter more.

Now, peace tastes like silence before my kids wake up and the first sip of coffee I don’t have to reheat four times.

I may not have fancy jewelry or a mansion, but I have something they’ll never understand:

Willpower.

Self-respect.

The strength to say “No more.”

The courage to write a new story.

The determination to give myself a brand-new hand and play it like a queen.

But my coffee addiction? That one’s here to stay. Some things never change.