I was standing in my friend's kitchen, apologizing for the third time in five minutes—once for reaching for a glass, once for standing "in the way" (I wasn't), and once more just for good measure. Her mother, who'd been quietly drinking her tea, set down her cup and looked at me with a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Laura, what do you have to be sorry about? Why do you keep saying sorry?"

The question hung in the air. I opened my mouth to apologize for apologizing, then caught myself. I didn't have an answer. I'd never really thought about it before—saying sorry was just what I did, as natural as breathing.

That moment in the kitchen was the first crack in a wall I didn't even know I'd built around myself.

Looking back now, I can trace these patterns to my childhood. As the oldest of three kids, I was the built-in helper, the extra pair of hands, the responsible one. The house always needed something—someone to watch my sisters, dishes to wash, chores to be done. If I ever sat still for too long, my mom or dad would materialize with another task. "Laura, since you're not doing anything..."

But I'd found my escape routes. Outside became my sanctuary. I'd run; I was a runner at school. My feet hitting the pavement was the only time I felt truly free, when no one could hand me another responsibility or need me to fix something. The wind in my hair, my breath in my lungs, the burn in my legs—these belonged only to me.

When I was injured and could no longer run the way I did, I discovered books. Curled up with a novel, I could disappear entirely. My family learned to leave me alone when I was reading—it was the only activity that seemed legitimate enough to excuse me from the constant cycle of helping, doing, being needed. Between those pages, I could be someone who wasn't apologizing, wasn't helping, wasn't making sure everyone else was okay.

But I carried those patterns with me everywhere, long after I left home. At university, at work, with friends, I was the peacekeeper, the one who smoothed over conflicts, the one who made sure everyone else was comfortable before I could even think about relaxing. Going out with friends meant doing a mental inventory: Is everyone having fun? Does anyone need anything?

The only exception was when I drank. Alcohol flipped a switch in me—suddenly I became selfish to the point of meanness, as if all those suppressed needs came roaring out at once, ugly and demanding. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't really me either. It was just the pendulum swinging violently in the opposite direction.

Years passed in this pattern. I said yes when I meant no. I showed up when I was exhausted. I gave and gave until there was nothing left, always looking outside myself for approval, for validation that I was good enough, helpful enough, worthy enough of taking up space in the world.

Then came the burnout.

It didn't happen dramatically, no collapse, no breakdown in a grocery store. It was quieter than that. One morning, I simply did not want to get out of bed. Not because I was physically sick, but because I was empty. Completely, utterly empty. I'd given myself away in so many small pieces that there was nothing left.

That's when I ran again—but this time, I ran far. Halfway around the world, to be exact. I needed an ocean between me and everyone who knew me as the helper, the yes-woman, the apologist. I needed space to figure out who Laura was when she wasn't constantly making herself smaller to make room for everyone else.

Living in different countries taught me things I couldn't have learned at home. The European women I met were a revelation. At first, I didn't understand them. They expected gifts on dates. They expected acknowledgment, attention, respect—not as something to be earned, but as a given. They dressed beautifully, their hair was always done, many wore makeup daily. But it wasn't about the makeup or the clothes, really. It was something deeper.

They had this quality about them, an expectation that people would treat them well, simply because they deserved it. They didn't work for it. They didn't apologize for it. They just... expected it. And amazingly, they got it.

I watched a woman I knew receive flowers from her boyfriend, and instead of the gushing gratitude I would have shown, she simply smiled and said, "They're lovely," as if of course he'd brought her flowers. Why wouldn't he? I watched Italian women take two-hour lunch breaks to enjoy their meals, not scarfing down a sandwich at their desks while working. I watched women spend money on themselves—nice shoes, spa treatments, little luxuries—without a trace of guilt.

What shocked me most was that they were loved. Deeply loved. Their partners didn't love them less because they had standards and expectations. If anything, they seemed to treasure them more. These women knew their worth, and everyone around them seemed to know it too.

I remember sitting at a café, watching a woman at the next table. Her boyfriend was late, and when he arrived, full of apologies, she didn't rush to make him feel better. She didn't say "It's okay" when it wasn't. She simply said, "I don't like waiting," and he nodded, understanding. They had a lovely dinner after that, but she had made her boundary clear. I would have been apologizing for making him feel bad about being late.

These women paid attention to themselves the way I'd been taught to pay attention to everyone else. They weren't selfish or narcissistic, they just understood something I'd never learned: that taking care of yourself, expecting respect, and having standards isn't something you have to earn through endless giving. It's your birthright.

Slowly, painfully, I began to unlearn the patterns. I started small—not apologizing when someone else bumped into me. Saying "I need to think about it" instead of immediately saying yes. Taking an hour for myself each day without explaining or justifying it to anyone. Buying myself something nice without needing a special occasion to justify it.

The word "boundaries" wasn't really in my vocabulary back then, but that's what I was building. Brick by brick, I was constructing something different from that old wall—not something to hide behind, but something to define where I ended and others began.

I'm human. I still catch myself slipping into old patterns sometimes. The urge to over-apologize, to people-please, to make myself smaller—it's still there, like muscle memory. But now I recognize it. Now I know that taking time for myself isn't selfish; it's necessary. That spending money on myself isn't wasteful; it's self-care. That having boundaries isn't mean; it's the kindest thing I can do for myself and others.

I see so many women now who are where I was—exhausted, depleted, apologizing for their existence while running themselves ragged trying to earn their worth through service to others. Women who've never been told that loving yourself means making space for yourself, that boundaries are not walls but doorways to healthier relationships.

That's why I'm sharing this story. Because somewhere out there is a woman standing in a kitchen, apologizing for taking up space, not knowing that she's allowed to exist without earning it. Somewhere there's a woman who thinks self-care is selfish, who believes she has to choose between being loved and having needs.

To her, to you, I want to say: You don't have to apologize for being human. You don't have to earn your place in the world by giving yourself away. The space you take up is yours by right. Claiming it isn't selfish, it's necessary.

It's taken me years and thousands of miles to learn this lesson, but here's what I know now: Boundaries aren't about keeping people out. They're about knowing where you end and others begin. They're about preserving enough of yourself that you have something real to give. They're about finally, finally stopping the apologies for simply existing.

And that's a journey worth taking, even if it starts with just one question in a kitchen: "What do you have to be sorry about?"