The Strategy Beneath the Strategy: Why I Push People Away

It’s taken me a long time to get here—not to the insight, but to the truth beneath the insight.

Yes, I’ve been trying to fix people.
Yes, I’ve been offering unsolicited help.
Yes, I’ve been pushing people away without meaning to.

But what I’m just now beginning to understand is this:

That was only the surface.

Beneath the fixer role, beneath the subtle emotional control, beneath the longing for connection, was something much more vulnerable:

I’ve been pushing people away so I don’t have to hope.

Because if I hope, I open.
If I open, I risk.
If I risk, I can be hurt.
And I know what it’s like to be hurt.

So I learned, unconsciously, to play a clever game:

Be useful. Be wise. Be emotionally articulate.
But don’t get too close.
Offer guidance, but not your raw self.
Be someone who helps, not someone who needs.
That way, they won’t see you.
And if they leave, it won’t matter.

But it does matter. It always mattered.

And now I can feel the grief of it. The loneliness I’ve created by trying to protect myself from disappointment. The shame that rushes in when I realize I’m the one who made it this way. Not because I’m bad. But because I was scared.

And here’s the thing:
It worked.
This strategy worked.
It gave me control. It gave me distance.
It helped me avoid the unbearable feeling of needing people who weren’t reliable.
It kept me from hope—and that felt safer than being hurt again.

But it also left me isolated.

And now I see it: the exhaustion isn’t just from trying to help everyone. It’s from holding up a version of myself that keeps people far enough away that I never have to face the risk of being left, or worse—seen and still not chosen.

It’s painful. But it’s also liberating.

Because if this was just a strategy—an adaptive response to a deep wound—then it’s not who I am. It’s who I became to survive. And what we become to survive can be unlearned in safety.

Maybe now I’m strong enough to do it differently.

Maybe I don’t need to impress people with my insights.
Maybe I don’t need to keep them at arm’s length with subtle superiority.
Maybe I can just show up—quiet, ordinary, present.

Maybe I can risk letting people close, even if they don’t stay.
Maybe I can learn to hold onto myself, even when others don’t.

Because connection isn’t safe. But it is real.
And I want something real.

Even if it hurts sometimes.
Even if it doesn’t last.
Even if it’s messy and awkward and fragile.

I’d rather try again—with presence, not performance.

And this time, maybe I’ll let myself hope.

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