I thought I was understanding enough - until someone became vulnerable how hurt they have been by me

Coming from a background of sexual abuse, some CPTSD, unfinished diagnoses, and almost my whole life spent figuring out who I am and what I even mean, I always strived to be an understanding and loving person.

I try to see life through another person's eyes—to understand the pain of walking in their shoes, the fears behind their indecision, the whys of their wrongdoings, and the scars that drive them to become someone they never meant to be. In some way, I try to be the person I always needed growing up, and still need now.

I thought I had been doing a good enough job. I thought I held enough space for people to breathe, speak, and express themselves. So much so that I would give up my own space so they could fully be who they are.

Then, for once, I decided to give that space entirely to myself.

I can't say I could have done it differently. But I felt I had to close doors, say no, and sever ties in one way or another. Some ended amicably. Others were messy. Some never even had the floor for a conversation.

I didn't realize how much space, love, and understanding I had given the people around me until there was almost nothing left for myself. In the end, I had to fight to get some of it back—and in doing so, I hurt more than I fought to heal. Myself, and people I claimed to love.

When I finally had that space, I began to understand the cost of where I had been, who I had become, who I wanted to become, and where I wanted to go.

And I saw that some important people had taken a hit. I didn't understand how deeply until some of them came to me vulnerable, expressing the depth of their hurt because of what I had done.

I had always been the person who walked into the space fully—vulnerable, walls down, masks off—only to find the other person still behind theirs, still performing a character, or not fully facing me.

So when these people came to me bare, I was taken aback.

Months ago, I would have folded under the weight of their pain. I would have drowned in regret and sorrow, hated myself for being selfish, and searched for every possible way to erase the hurt I had caused—to make it up to them until they felt resolved.

But surprisingly, that wasn't what happened.

I thought I was understanding enough, the way I had always tried to be: holding space for others, allowing them the freedom to be themselves and, eventually, become their best selves.

Ironically, it took the very people I hurt becoming vulnerable enough to show me that I wasn't.

Because I was understanding enough of them.

But not of me.

And the cost was depletion. When I eventually needed to recover, it came at the expense of the comfort and security I had given others.

Now I understand something differently.

It isn't me versus the people I love.

I still don't believe I am more important, or that I should always come first. I am simply seeing more clearly than ever that the space can hold me AND the people I love.

If I have spent my life trying to understand and love others in the way I have always needed to be understood and loved, then the only way I can continue doing that is by showing up fully.

And showing up fully means showing up imperfectly.

Coming in with needs and wants, and courage to ask and take up my part of the space without guilt. Stepping in knowing I matter just as much.

That we simultaneously do.

That the room IS BIG ENOUGH for the both of us.