The Gift I Didn’t Expect

It’s only now, with some distance, that I can see it clearly: it was a gift.

When my tutor exposed my vulnerability in front of the group and pushed past my boundaries to try and trigger growth I wasn’t ready for, it shook me. It left a mark on my psyche, one I carried for days. At first, it felt like a breach—of safety, of trust, of timing. But as the dust settled, I began to notice what it stirred up in me.

It mirrored something I’ve likely done in my own life.

I’ve pushed people too soon. I’ve wanted them to grow, to heal, to move—because I could see their potential, and I cared. But beneath that care, if I’m honest, was sometimes a quieter need: to feel useful, validated, important. If they grew, maybe I could take some credit. Maybe it would confirm something good about me.

But there’s a deeper layer to this.

That impulse—to push, to fix, to accelerate someone else’s growth—feels eerily familiar. It’s how I was treated. My parents often wanted me to be different, to grow faster than I was ready, to become someone who would reflect well on them. I internalized that pressure. And I’ve likely projected it onto others without realizing.

What my tutor did was painful—but it allowed me to feel the impact of that pattern from the other side. Even if her intentions were good, the experience reopened a wound I’ve carried since childhood: the feeling of not being accepted as I am.

And that’s the gift.

Because now I know how it feels. I understand how deeply it cuts, even when the words are “right.” It’s a reminder to stop trying to orchestrate someone else’s journey. To let people grow at their own pace. To offer presence, not pressure.

Their growth isn’t mine to own. And letting go of that attachment is what makes space for real connection.

It annoyed my psyche so much, I think, because it was one of the most useful truths I’ve ever been handed.

And then came a second layer—just as revealing.

My tutor also told me I was bypassing the emotional content of what someone shared, moving too quickly to the positives. That stung. But again, it rang true.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t fully present in that moment. I had slipped into a familiar role—the one I used with my mother. The good son. The caretaker. The one who made things lighter, brighter, less emotionally messy. I was offering comfort, but not connection. And it wasn’t fully conscious.

It’s the same dynamic I recently judged in someone else—a man who kept skipping over the real emotions with humour and surface-level positivity. I felt irritated by him. But now I can see I was looking straight into a mirror.

This pattern—what feels like a nurturing, caring impulse—has roots. It was born in childhood, when it was safer to make things okay for others than to sit with what I was really feeling. I thought I was helping. And part of me still thinks that. But in truth, it often bypasses the deeper work. It avoids what’s painful. It enables, rather than supports.

And the most confronting part? It comes from love.

This “nurturing parent” part of me isn’t malicious. It’s just misguided. It tries to do the job no one did for me. But in doing so, it can slip into rescuing or over-functioning. It can disempower others. It can blur the line between presence and control.

Maybe that’s why all of this happened at once.

The feedback. The trigger. The mirroring. The irritation with others. The memory of my own upbringing. It’s as if life conspired to highlight the place where I most need to grow.

And maybe the healing begins not with rejecting this part—but by seeing it clearly, naming it with compassion, and gently inviting it to step back.

I don’t need to be the fixer. Or the reframer. Or the one who lightens the load. I can be the one who stays—who sits with what’s hard and trusts the other person to find their own way through it.

Maybe that’s the real healing: learning to stay, not save.

And I think I’m ready now.

I’m listening.

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And if I’m honest, a part of me wants to claim some gold star for arriving at this insight. The ego’s quick to celebrate itself when clarity arrives. But real healing doesn’t need to be impressive. It just needs to be real.

This wasn’t about becoming enlightened. It was about staying with what irritated me long enough to see what it was pointing to.

Because sometimes the wound is where the light gets in.

And I think a little more light just made its way through.

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