How To Set Boundaries (Without Feeling Like a D*ck)

​This is an excerpt from my book, How To Set Boundaries (Without Feeling Like a D*ck)—a guide for anyone ready to speak up, honour their needs, and feel more grounded in their relationships.

CHAPTER ONE: Moving Beyond Niceness
 
Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start!) and begin by asking a simple question: how ‘Nice’ are you.

If your ultimate goal is to master the art of boundaries and become a true boundary-setting warrior, then the first step is to recognize how being overly ‘Nice’ and habitually putting others’ needs ahead of your own can quietly erase you from your life.

In this chapter, my goal is to show you why offering genuine compassion, rather than relying on relentless people-pleasing, is the key to a better and more balanced way of living.

The Problem with Being Nice

If you’re anything like me, you are probably wondering, what’s so wrong with being ‘Nice’? I mean, isn’t that what we’re supposed to be? From a very young age, we’re told by parents, teachers, and everyone around us to Be nice, Play nice, That’s not nice, and Ask nicely. We’re taught that being ‘Nice’ is the key to being liked, accepted, and valued in society.

So, isn’t being ‘Nice’ the ultimate goal?

Well, not really.

You see, being ‘Nice’ requires you to put other people first—to always be available for their wants, needs, and desires. And that’s great! For them. But when we spend so much of our time focusing on what other people want and need, it’s really easy to completely forget about ourselves in the mix. 

And that’s a problem.

As someone who considers herself a highly sensitive and naturally empathetic person, I know how easy it is to get caught up in taking care of others. I have a deep capacity to sense the emotions and needs of those around me, and I genuinely love offering support wherever I can. It feels good to be there for others—to help, to listen, to comfort. It’s a beautiful gift, and I’m grateful for it. But here’s what I’ve learned: even the most empathetic heart needs boundaries, and if I’m going to use my empathy as a superpower, I need to make sure I’m just as attuned to my own needs as I am to everyone else’s, don’t you think?

And see, that’s the rub. That’s the problem with being ‘Nice’ and having no boundaries: it ultimately requires you to abandon your wants and needs in servitude to the wants and needs of other people. It makes you super cool and chill to be around, and it will slowly erode your sense of self until you have nothing left to give.

Ouch.

The alternative, and what I hope to show you throughout this book, is how to be compassionate instead. How to use your knowledge of Who You Are to show up more authentically, love more deeply, and share more vulnerably.

You see, being ‘Nice’ is, well, nice. But being compassionate leaves space for you to exist as well. 
And that’s always better.

So, why should you listen to me – what makes me an expert on boundaries? The truth is, I learned how to navigate my way through the choppy waters of healthy communication and boundaries by sheer necessity and desperation. Growing up, I was taught that emotions were silly. That talking about your feelings was just bullshit psychobabble and that the only good and acceptable emotions were happiness and laughter—which means I learned to laugh a lot and am pretty damned funny if I do say so myself.

Growing up, I was taught that love—LOVE—meant never being angry or upset, always giving the other person the benefit of the doubt, and being willing to give in to keep the peace no matter what the personal cost or sacrifice. And so, I learned to stuff my emotions down. To turn them off and rationalize them away. To hide them from myself and others.

In other words, I learned to be ‘Nice.’ Which is kind of the default in society, isn’t it?

Let’s be honest, many of the significant dogmatic themes of this historical period revere the philosophy of martyrs—the idea of sacrificing yourself for some greater good, of suffering now for rewards later. 

This is all well and good, but spoiler alert: the martyr dies in the end.

Yikes.

And I get it because this is what I was taught, too, and as a result, I never really learned to trust myself. I think I feared that if I allowed myself to open up, even just a crack, like Pandora’s box, everything would come tumbling out, and I would be suffocated and consumed by a tsunami of emotions.

So, I learned to ignore my feelings; to push them down, and rely purely on my logic and rationale to get me through.

And it totally worked!

Until it didn’t.

Because here’s what I’ve learned about our emotions: the more we try to ignore them, the more stuck we get because they never really go away, do they? They just go into hiding.

They go underground.

Have you ever walked into a room after an argument or conflict and sensed that something was off? Like, a visceral or noticeable tension in the air? I call it Pissed Mist. There’s a residue that strong emotions leave behind and, when they are not acknowledged, this energy begins to infect everything.

And it will eventually start to consume you.

That’s what happened to me.

My Story: From Broken to Unbreakable

By the age of two, I was already learning how to be codependent and give up my own needs and opinions to please others. By the age of 5, I was starting to show symptoms of severe anxiety and self-injury. But it wasn’t until I was 19 that things got really bad for me, and that’s when I received my official diagnosis:

• Anorexia
• Bulimia
• Major Depressive Disorder
• Generalized Anxiety Disorder
• Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
• Suicidal Ideation
• Self-harm (which means, yes, there are scars on my body that I put there). 

In other words, broken.

Every doctor I saw and every specialist I consulted all agreed: I was broken. And, in many ways, they were right. Because when a lot of very smart people, with a lot of impressive degrees on the wall and letters after their names, tell you you’re broken, how long until you begin to believe them?
Growing up, I don’t remember feeling broken. In fact, I had what I thought was a relatively normal childhood.  From the outside, my family appeared affectionate and united—albeit with a touch of eccentricity.  But as time passed, I began to notice inconsistencies that puzzled and confused me. Feelings that didn’t make sense, fears that had no basis.

Or so I thought.

As a child, I could sense something was off about my family, but I could never quite put my finger on it. As an adult, I learned that my mother lived with a personality disorder, which made emotional resilience and genuine connection exceptionally difficult for her. Despite her struggles, she still longed for the closeness and family she didn’t have growing up. While she did her best, much of the time her best was chaotic and sometimes downright scary. It could be fun and crazy, but it was also terribly confusing and lacked the kind of stability a young child needs to feel safe and loved.

And so, I began to break.

A lot of people think eating disorders are about weight or getting attention and, while this certainly plays a part, consider this: a person with anorexia uses their conscious willpower to override their body’s own built-in self-preservation mechanism. It is a slow suicide, a death by a thousand paper cuts. It is about fear and control; it is about self-loathing and shame. Anorexia is born of a profound and persistent desire to destroy and obliterate the self. To disappear from existence—literally. Trust me when I tell you that the level of pain and shame required to starve yourself is not the result of not having a flat tummy or wanting to be a size 2.  It comes from a much deeper, much darker place.

​I know. I’ve been there. 

With each passing day, the pressure continued to build until the pain became unbearable and the fear began to consume me. I finally broke down. And that’s when we decided it was time for me to go to the hospital.

Those moments in the hospital come to me in spurts and flashes, movies of a lifetime that seem so foreign and long ago. But still, some memories remain. I remember sitting under one of those old TVs they used to have screwed into a corner on the wall (these were the days before flat screens and smartphones), and I remember wishing it would fall on me so the pain would stop.  I remember meeting with the on-call psychologist, a scrawny little guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a bowtie. I remember the scratchy feel of the hospital gown against my skin and how I liked it and found it comforting. I remember my dad going to a local donut shop at 3 a.m. and bringing back a batch of fresh-from-the-oven cheddar biscuits. 

And I remember Dwayne, an incredible soul who was part of the hospital’s Crisis Team (a team I would meet many more times over the coming years).  He was the first person to acknowledge me.

To notice me, not just my pain. 

He was the first person who told me I was not broken, but it would take another decade of pain and darkness to fully understand his message.

It wasn’t until I learned about a beautiful Japanese art form called Kintsukuroi that things began to click into place for me. 

Unbroken: Stronger Than Before

Kintsukuroi (keen-tsoo-koo-roy), which translates to ‘heal or repair with gold,’ is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery pieces with molten gold or silver, in essence highlighting the scars of the break. Rather than attempt to hide the injury or pretend it never happened, it was understood that the piece was more beautiful for having been broken and healed. These newly repaired pieces still held the essence of the original, but with something new added. While they weren't whole in the same way as before, they were no longer broken either.

They were, what I call Unbroken—stronger than before.

The ancient practice of Kintsukuroi taught me that our scars aren’t something to hide, but rather something to embrace as they are proof of our resilience and ability to rebuild and grow stronger. Just as a broken bone cannot break in the same way again, these repaired pottery pieces become more valuable and stronger with their unique golden seams. Similarly, as we heal, we too become stronger and more capable through the challenges we’ve overcome.

In 2010, I walked away from my eating disorder and began my journey back to health. And it all started when I stopped being ‘Nice’ and embraced a new way of showing up.

It all started with boundaries.