There is a particular kind of pain that doesn’t come from conflict itself, but from disappointment.
The kind that says:
I wanted to be able to trust you.
When someone in authority crosses a boundary, the impact isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet, unsettling, and deeply confusing. Especially when part of you still hopes that authority might feel safe this time.
This is a reflection on one of those moments — and what it revealed about an old wound I didn’t realise I had already survived.
Wanting trust, but not feeling safe
I noticed a grief underneath my irritation.
Not rage.
Not defensiveness.
Grief.
Grief that I wanted a tutor to feel safe.
Grief that I wanted to feel supported and respected.
Grief that I wanted the relationship to be simple.
But my body didn’t feel safe.
And that matters.
Feeling unsafe isn’t a failure of insight or maturity. It’s data. Especially when the relationship involves power, assessment, and vulnerability.
When a boundary echoes an old wound
When my boundary was crossed, it didn’t just feel uncomfortable — it felt familiar.
The familiarity wasn’t about the person.
It was about the pattern.
Authority figures who don’t invite consent.
Authority figures who decide what’s shared and when.
Authority figures who act without attunement.
That pattern goes back a long way for me — particularly to relationships where my emotional boundaries weren’t respected growing up.
So no, I’m not projecting my mother onto my tutor.
But my nervous system recognises the structure:
power without relational safety.
The deeper fear underneath it all
For a long time, I thought the deepest fear here was:
“What if I’m not good enough to be a therapist?”
But that’s not quite it.
The deeper fear is more existential:
“Am I allowed to exist as I truly am?”
That fear was shaped by an earlier experience with professional authority, when a diagnosis was delivered with absolute certainty. It felt final. Like a verdict on my future.
In that moment, it wasn’t just information — it felt like hope was taken away.
So when authority now acts without care, something very old gets stirred:
the fear that someone else can decide whether my life is viable.
When the worst fear actually happened
Here’s the part that changes the whole story.
I didn’t get onto the course.
My secure base — the counselling training that grounded me — was suddenly gone.
I asked for feedback multiple times and was repeatedly evaded.
Eventually, I was told there would be no feedback.
I was simply “unlucky.”
And then there were months of limbo.
No structure.
No course.
No clear reason.
Just me, alone — except for my therapist.
And yet…
I didn’t fall apart.
I wasn’t thriving, but I was okay.
I didn’t lose my sense of self.
I didn’t stop believing I could be a therapist.
I didn’t turn bitter or collapse into shame.
I even made peace with the idea of taking a year out.
That matters more than I realised at the time.
Because it proved something quietly but decisively:
My existence and my future were never actually in their hands.
Choosing safety is not weakness
When I decided to reapply to the same college, it wasn’t because I lacked confidence.
It was because familiarity felt regulating.
I knew the building.
I knew the rooms.
I knew the tutors.
My nervous system felt safer there.
That wasn’t avoidance — it was wisdom.
And when I got onto Level 4 this year, it didn’t suddenly give me confidence.
It confirmed something that had already survived rejection.
Internal authority (the part that was missing)
What I’m learning now is this:
The projection wasn’t about my tutor as a person.
It was about where authority lived inside me.
For a long time, part of me believed that authority figures decided:
- whether I was allowed
- whether I was safe
- whether my future was legitimate
That belief made sense once.
It doesn’t anymore.
Internal authority doesn’t mean arrogance or defiance.
It means a quiet ability to say:
- I can name when something isn’t okay.
- I can feel disappointed without collapsing.
- I can keep going even if authority doesn’t feel safe.
Naming the boundary, simply
When my boundary was crossed, I named it plainly:
“Something vulnerable about me was shared without my permission.
I wasn’t invited into that conversation.
I didn’t get a chance to consent or set a boundary.”
That wasn’t dramatic.
It was honest.
And if the relationship doesn’t repair after honesty, I’m allowed to notice:
I don’t feel safe here.
That’s not pathology.
That’s discernment.
The quiet confidence underneath it all
Despite everything — rejection, silence, uncertainty — one thing has stayed intact:
I know I’m good at this.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
But grounded, reflective, and committed to doing the work — including the parts that are still unfolding.
And more than anything, I know this:
Being a safe, effective therapist who looks after themselves matters more to me than status or wealth.
That clarity didn’t come from being approved.
It came from surviving without it.
The real integration
Authority didn’t save me.
Authority didn’t destroy me either.
I did.
Slowly.
Carefully.
With honesty and support.
And that’s the kind of authority I trust now —
the one that lives inside me.
Even when the outside world wobbles.