I didn't realize how much of my life was spent paying attention to everyone else until I began wondering how often I paid the same attention to myself.

It wasn't an accusation. It was simply a question.

And like so many meaningful questions, it came quietly.

For years, I would have described myself as easygoing.

I could usually see both sides of a situation. If someone else had a stronger opinion than I did, I was often happy to let them have it. If plans changed, I adjusted. If someone needed something, I usually found a way to help.

I never questioned any of it.

I simply assumed "That's just who I am."

Maybe you've said something similar.

"I'm easygoing."

"I don't need much."

"Whatever works for everyone else is fine."

Lately, I've been wondering how many of the things we call our personality are actually things we've learned.

Not fake or wrong.

Simple adaptations.

One of the things people often commented on during my years as a dental hygienist was how comfortable they felt with me.

I always appreciated hearing that.

At the time, I assumed it came from experience.

Forty-five years will teach you a lot.

But looking back, I think something else was happening.

Before a patient ever sat in my chair, I had already begun gathering information.

Were they nervous?

Did they need reassurance?Would talking help, or would quiet feel safer?

Were they trying to be brave or just grumpy today?

I wasn't consciously thinking through any of this.

My body simply knew how to pay attention.

That ability allowed me to care for thousands of people.

It truly was a gift. But gifts often have stories behind them.

A few years ago, after I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's, I found myself asking a different kind of question.

Not because I believed my diagnosis had one emotional cause. Life is rarely that simple.

But knowing what I know now, I became curious.

I began wondering if my body was inviting me into a conversation.

It was inviting me to become curious and to listen a little more closely.

One question kept quietly finding its way back to me.

Where in my life don't I feel free to express what I'm really thinking while still being kind?

The question surprised me.

Most people who know me would probably say I've never had trouble speaking my mind.

And they're right.

I've never been afraid to share my thoughts.

But as I sat with that question, I began to notice places inside me.

The places where I felt numb because I had downplayed what I really thought. Areas of pain where I'd chosen silence because I believed it was the kinder thing to do. Where, little by little, I had become so accustomed to listening for everyone else that I detached from myself.

None of it came from not caring.

If anything, it came from caring so deeply that I couldn't always imagine telling the truth and still being kind.

I wasn't trying to hide or be someone I wasn't. I was simply trying to be kind.

Looking back now, I wonder if that, too, was one of my adaptations.

The more I sat with that question, the more something else began to emerge.

What if the ways we learned to move through the world weren't flaws at all?

What if they were intelligent responses to the lives we were living?

Our bodies are remarkable. They're constantly gathering information.

They notice the sigh someone tries to hide.

The change in a person's voice.

The look that says someone is hurting before they've spoken a single word.

For some of us, that ability became incredibly refined.

We became very good at gathering information about everyone around us.

So good at the task that somewhere along the way, we stopped gathering information about ourselves.

When I wrote that sentence in my journal, I just stared at it.

Because I realized it wasn't only true in my relationships.

It had been true in my body, too.

I wasn't listening to my body because I was listening for everyone else.

I read the line again.

And then again.

It felt like something inside me quietly whispered, "Yes."

Maybe that's why so many women eventually find themselves wondering where they've gone.

Not because they've lost themselves.

But because their attention has lived outside themselves for so long.

Always noticing, anticipating, adjusting.

Always making sure everyone else is okay.

It's exhausting.

Not because caring is exhausting.

Because constant monitoring is.

Here's the part that changed everything for me.

For a long time, I thought healing meant getting rid of those habits.

Stop:

• people-pleasing.
• overthinking.
• reading the room.
• worrying about everyone else.

But something about that never felt right.

Because those weren't bad parts of me, those parts had been trying to help.

They were intelligent and loving. They protected me.

They had found ways to help me belong.

Ways to help me stay connected and safe.

How could I possibly criticize the part of me that had worked so faithfully to protect me?

Instead, I found myself feeling grateful.

Grateful for the young girl who learned to notice everything.

Grateful for the part of me that paid such close attention.

Grateful for the adaptations that helped me become who I needed to be in that season of my life.

She deserved my gratitude.

Not my criticism.

But adaptations don't always know when their work is finished.

They keep doing the job they were created to do.

Long after the circumstances have changed.

After we're no longer the person who needed them in quite the same way.

Sometimes I wonder if that's one of the ways our bodies continue caring for us.

Not by working against us.

But by gently whispering,

"You don't have to work this hard anymore."

Your body has a story to tell.

Perhaps that's one of the stories it's trying to tell you.

So this week, I'd like to invite you into a small experiment.

Before you check in with someone else, check in with yourself.

Not to become less caring.

Simply to gather information.

What am I feeling?

What do I need?

What is my body trying to tell me right now?

And when you notice one of your old adaptations showing up, don't judge it or push it down.

Pause. Take a breath.

Maybe even place your hand over your heart and say to yourself;

"Thank you."

"Thank you for finding a way to protect me."

"Thank you for helping me belong."

"Thank you for carrying me this far."

Now listen. Notice your body’s response. Take your time.

Then ask, "Do you still need to work this hard?"

Now listen. No judgment. Simply listen.

Because perhaps healing doesn't begin by fighting the parts of ourselves that learned to survive.

Perhaps healing begins by honoring their wisdom and gently reminding them that we have more choices today.

Your adaptations deserve gratitude.

Your future deserves choice.