When Boundaries Become Punishment

I came home and she was furious. Deeply hurt. She said I should’ve told her we were having dinner alone. The truth is… I wanted to. But there wasn’t a good moment. She was busy chatting with the neighbors, and I didn’t want to say it in front of them—especially knowing she might get triggered if I said, ‘I’m going out for tacos with Mayda.’ So I waited. I thought I’d tell her when I got back."

But when he did, she said he was dishonest and insensitive. That she needed to set a boundary because she didn't deserve to be mistreated like that.

"The next morning," he continued, "she told me that she was leaving and heading back home."

I was surprised. Shocked, honestly. She was supposed to stay for four weeks—they still had at least ten days left together.

Just a week earlier, he had told me he was all in. That he wanted to see it through fully until the end of the month.

I remember feeling proud of him. Of his willingness to lean in. To stay present through the edges. To remain curious, as he had intended to.

I saw the pain and confusion on his face—and it broke me.

 He’s my best friend. And in that moment, I felt a wave of rage toward the woman who had hurt him like this. Not just because I love him deeply, but because it felt so profoundly unfair. I knew, first hand, how much he had been wanting to give the very best of him in this relationship.

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My mind started rewinding the last few days, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Three weeks earlier, I had lost my dog. The timing was brutal—she had just arrived in town when it happened. He had told her clearly that while she was visiting, it was important for him to spend time with me and keep me company while I was grieving. She said she was okay with it.

It didn’t end up being necessary. I shut down. Completely. I went into my little grief cave, and we barely saw each other. 

Then came Wednesday—my regular Tantra class. After we wrapped up, he asked if I wanted to grab tacos. We invited the rest of the group, but no one else felt like joining. So we just walked to the little taco spot next to his place.

While we were eating, I was opening up to him about my relationship—just catching up, heart to heart. Suddenly, she walked by. Said hi. He asked her if she wanted to join us. She said no and left.

That was it. I went home. He went home. And boom. The bomb exploded.

So… she broke up with you because you took your grieving best friend out for tacos? I asked, trying to make sense of what was happening.

We looked at each other. Speechless. It was so absurd, so completely nonsensical… that we couldn’t help but laugh. Even though—deep down—it wasn’t funny at all.

But let’s be honest—it wasn’t really about the tacos. Or the fact that we had dinner alone. Not even about the possibility of intimacy.

(And seriously, if we had wanted to cheat on her—would we really be sitting outside on a public street, eating tacos right next to his house? Or wouldn’t we have just gone to my place and gotten it over with?)

No. It wasn’t the tacos. It was the story. 

I have no idea what her story was, to be honest. But, in my experience working with women I feel that the story says that he’s a horrible, insensitive, cheating, lying man (like the "other ones") who doesn’t know how to treat a woman properly. And the belief that "good" men SHOULD NEVER do that. And if they do?

We SHOULD punish them. Make them feel guilty. Shame them. And leave them.

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While this was happening I was also navigating something in my relationship: the man I love hadn’t texted me in a while.  And yes—it hurt. Partly because I was still in the thick of grieving my dog, and everything felt really raw.

Some of my friends were angry on my behalf: 

“He should text you, that’s not normal.” 

“How can he be so insensitive?”

 “You need to set a boundary.”

But deep down… I didn’t feel that way. I kept coming back to the same quiet truth: it’s not his job to hold me through this. It’s not his responsibility. 

And that doesn’t make him a bad person. Or an asshole. Or emotionally unavailable. I know he’s going through his own storm, trying to stay afloat in his own life.

Should he really be punished for that? Do I really need to start setting boundaries?

I’ve worked with enough men—and advocated for them enough—to know that the answer is no. He shouldn’t be punished. He deserves exactly the same grace, understanding and compassion that I want for myself.

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I’ve always felt something stir inside me when I hear friends—or female clients—say: “I had to set a boundary. I don’t deserve this.”

 And it’s said with this sharp edge, like a sword drawn in self-defense. And I found it very interesting how much this triggers me, so I got curious.

I get it. I really do. We’re swimming in a culture that repeats, on loop: A woman who values herself knows how to set boundaries. If you don’t, it means you lack self-love. But don’t worry—here’s a $1,500 workshop to fix that for you.

So we get bombarded. Every day. With slogans like: “You deserve better.” “If he doesn’t step up—walk away.” “If he doesn’t meet your needs—leave.”

And over the years, something in me has started questioning this narrative. It always felt… off. Like a part of the truth was missing.

And this recent experience? It brought all of that back up—this time with a new level of clarity.

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I spent a lot of time reflecting—on what had just happened to my friend, and on how I wanted to navigate my own situation.

Is there a path that allows us to meet uncomfortable moments with more ease? Even with what we say we want in relationships: LOVE!

In my personal life and my professional practice, I’ve always believed that every challenge in a relationship is an invitation—a door to deeper connection.  But what’s the key to that door?

I sat with that question again and again, until suddenly, it hit me. 

Ironically enough, it was something he had shared with me—long before this woman came to visit.

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Soon after she left, we joyfully resumed our rhythm: morning voice notes and afternoon tea. One day, he was sitting at the counter, telling me about something she had said—and I had to interrupt him.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” I said. “And I want to ask you something.”

He looked at me curiously.

“What if... instead of setting a boundary, she had responded to the situation with curiosity?”

His eyes lit up—wide, open, alive.

I went on.

“What if she had asked: 

• What do you get from this connection? 

• Why is this friendship important to you? 

• What do you share in these dinners? 

• Why is she so meaningful in your life?”

He paused for a moment, then smiled that beautiful, wide smile of his.

“Well,” he said, “one thing’s for sure—we’d still be together.”

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Boundaries—especially the really harsh ones that feel like walls—are usually built from fear, pain, or a sense of threat. They say, “I can’t deal with this. I need to shut down or cut off.” It’s a survival strategy, not an invitation to connection.

Boundaries as punishment

 They're like locking a door and throwing away the key—protective, yes, but at the cost of intimacy.

Curiosity, on the other hand, is the key that invites mutual awareness. It creates attuned relating. It flows from truth, from an open heart.

 Isn’t this what we all really want in relationships?

Real connection doesn’t come from “I need this, give it to me.” It comes from “Here I am. Where are you? What’s alive for you?”

This is devotional. This is love that listens. You’re inviting someone into a deeper relational field—with a question, not a rule.

Who would I need to become to embody this understanding? To stay curious instead of shutting down in this experience?

The answer was excruciatingly painful: I would need to understand that I’m not the only one who matters in this relationship. That what he feels, needs, and thinks is just as important as what I do.

And my ego? It started gasping for air and having a full-blown panic attack.

I wasn’t being chosen.

I wasn’t being prioritized.

I wasn’t being… special.

It screamed:

“This is unsafe.”

“This is humiliating.”

“This is NOT love.”

But another part of me —

the part that breathes in truth —

stayed curious. What if this wasn’t abandonment…

But liberation?

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“I need, I want, I expect” is ego-based communication that forgets to ask. It might get someone to perform how we want, or how we think we deserve… But in the long run, it doesn’t build the deep kind of love we truly crave.

Controlling someone’s behavior so they look and act the way we want… Isn’t that just training them like an animal? Rewarding them when they speak in a tone we like. Withholding affection when they don’t follow our emotional script. Tensing our body, using silence as a leash.

 We call them “boundaries.” But sometimes, it's just behavioral correction dressed in spiritual words.

We might not even realize we're doing it — because control, when masked as care, is so seductive.

But is that really love? Or is it a covert attempt to shape them into someone who fits more neatly into the image of what makes us feel safe?

Is it intimacy, or is it a performance?

Are we loving the person in front of us, or are we in love with the version of them we think we can create? Is there another way? One that doesn’t involve shutting down, exploding, blaming, or shaming?

 What if we did it differently? What if we allowed their natural rhythm to emerge— And started loving them just as they are, Meeting them exactly where they are—not where we wish they’d be?

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I have to admit, I'm starting to test this theory in my personal experience — this idea of choosing curiosity over boundaries, of staying open instead of building walls. But something in me knows… it might change everything.

I have a feeling that showing up with curiosity will not only help me feel more in integrity with who I really am — it might also open up a whole new field of connection. One that feels softer. Truer. Less about control, and more about discovery. A space where we both get to be met as we are, not as who we’re supposed to be. That feels worth exploring. And even if it’s hard, I think I’ll feel proud of the woman I become in the process.