When I look back today at many of the decisions I made in the past, I can see a quiet belief that accompanied me for a long time without my being consciously aware of it. Somewhere within me lived the conviction that love had to be earned. At the time, I would probably have rejected that idea, because of course I knew that genuine affection should not depend on achievement. Yet my behaviour told a different story. I tried to be helpful, understanding, reliable and as undemanding as possible. I took on responsibility even when I did not have the strength for it and tried to anticipate other people’s expectations before they were even expressed. Beneath all of this effort lay an almost invisible fear. If I did not do enough, did not respond in the right way or disappointed someone, the closeness that mattered so much to me might change.
I believe this inner connection often begins very early in life. A child does not consciously think about what conditions it has to meet in order to be loved. But it notices very carefully when it receives attention, approval and warmth. Perhaps it is praised especially when it is quiet, successful or helpful, while its anger, sadness or neediness is met with overwhelm. There does not have to be an openly stated demand. Even small changes in tone or atmosphere can communicate which parts are welcome. The child begins to adapt because belonging feels essential to its inner world. It does not necessarily learn that it is unloved. Rather, it learns that love feels safer when it behaves in certain ways and holds other parts of itself back.
From this early adaptation, self-deceptions can later develop that sound sensible and even loving. I told myself that I liked being there for others, even though at times I completely ignored myself in the process. I explained my constant availability as generosity and my silence as understanding. When I did not express a boundary, I called it consideration. When I put my own needs aside, I believed I was being especially loyal. In many situations, part of this was true, because I genuinely wanted to support others and avoid hurting anyone unnecessarily. But beneath that willingness there was often the fear that a no might change something in the relationship. I was not only helping out of freely given affection, but also to secure my place in another person’s life.
What made this so difficult was that for a long time I mistook the mechanism for my character. I thought I was simply someone who could endure a great deal, take responsibility and accommodate others. Only when exhaustion, inner restlessness and a growing sense of emptiness began to appear did I start looking more closely. I noticed that although I did a great deal for other people, I was asking myself less and less often what I actually felt. My attention was so strongly focused on how the other person was doing and what might be expected of me that my own truth was given hardly any space. Perhaps you know these moments too, when you automatically say yes and only later realise that there was actually a no within you. Perhaps you notice how quickly guilt appears the moment you withdraw, rest or are not immediately available.
In relationships, this belief can become especially powerful because it is so easily confused with love. We may believe that love means understanding everything, remaining patient and never burdening the other person with our own needs. We hope that by giving even more, we will finally receive the sense of security that is missing within us. When closeness becomes uncertain, we often look for the fault in ourselves and ask what else we could do. We try harder, explain ourselves more clearly, adapt even further and overlook the fact that a relationship which can only survive through our constant self-abandonment cannot offer genuine security. I too had to recognise that love does not become deeper because I keep making myself smaller. A person who only knows the adapted version of me is not encountering my whole being, but the role I use in an attempt to prevent losing them.
This form of self-deception does not only affect romantic relationships. It can appear at work, in friendships and within families. Perhaps you work longer than necessary because recognition makes you feel valuable. Perhaps you try to resolve conflicts between other people because you believe you are responsible for harmony. Perhaps you rarely say that you are tired, hurt or overwhelmed because you do not want to be a burden. From the outside, you may appear strong and dependable, while inside you begin to feel that you only matter when you are doing something. Your sense of worth becomes tied to other people’s reactions. A thank you, a compliment or a sign of closeness may soothe the inner uncertainty for a while, but the reassurance rarely lasts, because the real wound does not lie in having done too little. It lies in the belief that without doing these things, you are not worthy of love.
My body often showed me this truth before my mind was ready to accept it. After certain encounters, I felt exhausted even though nothing outwardly dramatic had happened. In some situations, my breathing became shallower, my chest tightened or my inner restlessness grew stronger. Instead of taking these signs seriously, I told myself that I needed to become more resilient, calmer or more understanding. In doing so, I continued the self-manipulation, because I made my reaction the problem instead of asking what it was trying to show me. Only gradually did I understand that exhaustion does not always come from having too much to do. Sometimes it comes from the constant effort of maintaining a version of ourselves that we believe will be loved more readily than what we truly feel.
Change did not begin for me by rejecting every expectation from one day to the next. I first had to notice when my actions were genuinely coming from love and when they were coming from fear. From the outside, both could look exactly the same. I could help someone because I freely wanted to, or because I was afraid of becoming less important if I did not. I could remain silent because a conversation would not be helpful at that moment, or because I was afraid of rejection. Distinguishing between the two required honesty and patience. Sometimes I only realised afterwards that I had abandoned myself again. But every moment of recognition brought me a little closer back to myself and showed me that I did not have to condemn my old patterns in order to begin acting differently.
Today, I understand that the desire to earn love is not a sign of weakness. It is often the result of an early experience in which adaptation created a sense of safety. That part of me was not trying to deceive or destroy me. It was trying to prevent me from losing closeness and being left alone with rejection. But I no longer have to follow its old logic. I am allowed to learn that my worth does not first arise through achievement, availability or self-denial. I can be there for others without abandoning myself, and I can set boundaries without becoming unloving. Perhaps beneath many of the lies we tell ourselves lies this one fear: that we will no longer be loved once we stop doing something to earn it. The deeper truth begins where we recognise that love which embraces our whole being cannot depend on a role, and that we do not first have to prove that we are worthy of being seen, respected and accepted.