I’m starting to understand now what my mother told me yesterday, or at least I’m coming up with my own interpretation of the message in her words.
To feel a mix of egoism, hypocrisy, and guilt when you put yourself first—when you set healthy boundaries and stand up for yourself—is normal. On the other hand, you may feel a sense of pride, joy, and self-worth for finally being able to protect yourself independently.
Everything comes at a cost, and for everything there is a reward.
We need to learn to see both aspects in every sphere of life. Appreciation for life, a sense of belonging to the collective, and finding our place on this planet also come from the realization and acceptance of this duality.
Through victimization, we can only wander around in pain, loneliness, and resentment.
There is a fine line between caring about those we love and caring about ourselves, but the latter should always prevail, because the person we spend the most time with is ourselves. That’s the relationship we should cherish the most.
That doesn’t mean mistreating or disregarding others. It means nurturing self-compassion above all else to protect ourselves during the most painful moments that we will inevitably encounter throughout our lifetime.
It may seem counterintuitive, but part of the process that brings this awareness, deep understanding, and integration of these learnings is also letting go of the ego and the need for validation from others. It means knowing that we are enough, that we can lose anything and still be content as long as we don’t lose ourselves.
Ultimately, maturity is not about detachment from others, but about alignment with ourselves. When we are grounded in who we are, we stop negotiating our worth. From that place, relationships become choices—not dependencies—and solitude becomes presence, not absence.
There was a time when everything my parents said would piss me off. Even though I rarely reacted to what I perceived as provocations, inside I was boiling—repressing emotions like anger and anxiety.
In the last years, however, I’ve begun finding peace with them, and I still can’t believe it took more than thirty years.
It wasn’t a single moment of clarity. I had to go through a long process that involved distancing myself from them, listening to other people’s stories so I could detach from my own, getting randomly triggered by memories of past moments, and trying to understand what that whole first part of my life meant—if anything at all. It meant facing a lot of uncomfortable emotions, going through multiple breakdowns, and sitting with questions that didn’t have clear answers.
By the end of it—or what feels like an end, if such a thing even exists—I didn’t experience a dramatic breakthrough or sudden epiphany. It was more of a slow realization, one that I’m only now starting to grasp with more clarity. I want to share it briefly here, because it might help someone reflect on their own situation—or smile knowing they’ve gone through the same necessary shit. Or maybe shake their heads, not understanding what I mean. And that’s fine too.
What I realized is this: I don’t have to take everything my parents say seriously or personally, or interpret it as criticism or a lesson. Learning to read between the lines helped me find peace with them.
And by that, I mean understanding the real meaning—or lack of meaning—behind what they say. Sometimes there is no lesson, no deeper message to decipher, no hidden agenda. Sometimes parents talk simply because they want to be in connection, even when their words don’t land well.
I now understand why this took so long. Up to a certain point, we expect direction from our parents. And it’s not always clear what they’re trying to say—even though they may be convinced that they used all the words and methods available to communicate their point.
With time, some things did become clearer, mostly because I closed part of the communication gap by making the effort to listen without expecting anything at all. Other things, I believe, will never be totally clear—and I now know I can live with that.
Of course they made a ton of mistakes along the way. Who doesn’t? What parent doesn’t make mistakes? What child doesn’t?
We may spend years victimizing ourselves for the things that happened to us—and that’s okay too. It’s part of the process of understanding, of putting together the pieces of a puzzle that takes a long time to make sense. Abuse leaves scars; trauma is no joke. But we can overcome anything—even the heavy things we bury deep in our soul, the things that make us shake when we access them, but that we eventually have to face in order to transcend them.
Once we acknowledge the humanness of our parents, and see how they, too, are normal people trying to do the right thing while raising another human—something nobody ever taught them to do—even the unclear things start to feel a bit clearer.
And some things simply lose importance along the way. We look back and wonder why we spent so much time dwelling on them.
When we finally start listening—really listening—to them or to anyone, without resistance and without judgment, we realize how often we didn’t read between the lines. How often we refused to fill in the blank spaces, the things people cannot express with words. In my experience, many people from older generations often found it harder to show vulnerability or express certain emotions compared to how we approach these topics today. It’s still not easy now either—but difficulty isn’t an excuse. If we want to convey real meaning in what we say, we need to open up and share our fears, emotions, and the things that scare us most.
And we also need time. Time to learn how to do that, in the right context, and at the right moment.
As far as I can remember, I’ve always been someone who expects a lot from others—too much, actually. But with time, I realized that these expectations disregard the humanness in us—our natural tendency to make mistakes as part of growth.
Growing up in Brazil, I was raised in a very controlled environment—so controlled that my childish mistakes were met with some form of punishment almost every time. Experimenting with freedom and without fear was difficult for me. Things improved when I moved to Italy, as Europe generally feels safer, but not by much. By the age of eighteen, for example, I had never been to a club, never drank alcohol, never even tried coffee—and on weekends, I still had to be home before 22:30. I had done many other debatable things, like punching other kids in the face when I felt they had crossed the line, but I eventually blacklisted that kind of behavior, too.
Before I realized it, my parents had given me a strong ethical foundation. I had a clear sense of right and wrong—at least from my own perspective. I won’t pretend I didn’t act hypocritically at times, bending the rules I had imposed on myself for personal advantage. Consciously or unconsciously, we all do that. Still, I had my own code of conduct. (As a side note, it always surprises me how strange some things sound when you write them down.)
Over time, that educational method bore fruit. I could focus on what mattered to me without distraction, and I was respected—admired even—for my integrity.
Nowadays, the kind of upbringing my parents gave me—filled with slaps, confinement, and, at times, beatings with a belt—would be completely unacceptable, at least here in Germany, where I currently live. I’m sure I would avoid any form of conscious physical or mental coercion if I were to become a father. However, it worked. And as strange as it may sound, I’m extremely grateful to my parents for that. I believe I was a tough kid, and they did what they could with what was available to them at the time.
The catch, though, is that I came to expect the same level of (self-perceived) integrity and moral drive from others. I simply couldn’t accept mediocrity as I defined it—and that soon led me into self-isolation.
It took me a very long time to understand that we are all different, that we should accept and even embrace those differences. Putting this into practice is still a work in progress, but I can confidently say I’ve improved since I began prioritizing this mindset, researching the topic, and working on myself.
I haven’t yet reached the harmony I desire in relationships. At the moment, I find myself in a phase where I expect the least from people I meet. It’s a way of tricking my brain into opening up more easily. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how much quality others can bring into our lives when we set the right boundaries and shape them consciously—when we stop projecting too much of our inner patterns onto the outside world and instead learn to embrace whatever it has to offer.
Expecting less from others doesn’t mean lowering your standards—it means freeing yourself from the illusion that people should act according to your script. When you release that weight, life becomes lighter, and genuine connections have the space to surprise you.
