The Cost of Being Loved

I wrote a poem recently called “No One Stood”, and it came from a place I haven’t dared speak out loud for most of my life. It came from the ache of watching other people be protected while I was left exposed. It came from being betrayed not just by strangers—but by people I loved, people I defended, people who let me fall.

You see, I never had anyone who stepped in for me when the fire started. No one who threw their body in front of the blame, or stood beside me when things got hard. I’ve watched families cover for each other, rally for each other—even in some of the worst, most disgusting situations—and I’ve envied that bond deeply.

Because that’s never been my reality.

My mother didn’t just fail to protect me. She handed me over. She “turned me in” when I made mistakes, yes—but also when I didn’t. She loved watching me get into trouble. And in many cases, she was the one who lit the match and then stood back to watch me burn.

And I was just a kid.

I envy those families. The ones who circle the wagons. The ones who protect each other, even when it’s complicated. I see friends cover for one another, defend one another, lift each other up even when one of them is falling apart. And I wonder—what would that feel like?

To be defended, without question. To be believed. To be loved, not because you’re perfect, but because you belong.

I’ve never had that. So, I became that—for myself. And I’m telling you right now: It is exhausting.

The Roots of People Pleasing and the Cost of Being Loved

What I understand now—what I couldn’t fully name before—is that my people-pleasing doesn’t come from kindness. It comes from survival.

I was raised in a home where love was a reward, not a given. If my mother wasn’t happy, I was unlovable. That was the rule. That was the energy in every room. I heard it enough to believe it:

• “You’re too hard to love.”

• “You make it hard for anyone to love you.”

• “I love you, but I don’t like you.”

  
  

So I chased her love, always. I tried to be useful, impressive, agreeable—anything that might soften her mood. But nothing worked for long.

And over time, I learned that love meant sacrifice. It meant money. It meant giving, even when you didn’t have anything left to give. I watched my mother go broke for appearances—for admiration—for control. She taught me that gifting wasn’t generosity. It was a transaction. It was currency for control.

We were poor. Yet she would drive 90 minutes to bring groceries to a relative with more kids than we had food, while we couldn’t pay our own bills. She bought me expensive school clothes—not because I wanted them, but because she did. And if I dared not like what she picked, or spilled on it, I was “ungrateful.” If I liked something she didn’t, she refused to buy it, then told others how spoiled I was.

Everything was about money. About how much she gave. How much I cost.

So when I later spent money I didn’t have—when I made the same mistakes she had modeled—I was mocked, scolded, and she told others “I don’t know where she gets it from,” as if none of it had roots.

Even gifts I gave as a child came with landmines. If she didn’t like it, she reacted with disgust. But if I broke my back to buy her something she did like—then suddenly, I was her pride and joy. And five minutes later, irresponsible for spending too much money.

There was no winning. No stability. Just shifting goalposts, and a message carved into my bones: Love is earned, and it is fragile. And if someone is unhappy, it’s your fault.

Why I Stayed with the Wrong People

Which brings me to Her...

A person I once believed in. A person I fought for—legally, emotionally, publicly. A person I advocated for when her rights were being violated, and as a result, I lost everything: My job. My livelihood. The first real sense of peace and joy I’d ever tasted.

And she disappeared.

Not just emotionally—completely. When I needed support, when I asked for it (twice), I was met with silence or, worse, hostility. I got messages full of accusations, not compassion. As I lay in bed, trying to hold on through deep depression, trying to stay sober (7.5 years now), trying to keep my head above water—she chose to see neglect where there was only survival.

And I realized something.

I wasn’t mourning her. I was mourning the pattern. I had been nurturing her, overextending, mothering her in ways that felt familiar. Because I was trained to love people who don’t love me back. To keep giving, because one day, maybe I’d finally be good enough to be kept.

Breaking the Cycle

But that cycle ends now.

I am done trying to earn love through sacrifice. I am done showing up for people who disappear when the roles reverse.

I am done being the protector in relationships where I am never protected.

I still believe in doing the right thing. I will always fight for justice. But I will no longer destroy myself to do it. I am no longer interested in being loved because I’m useful. I want to be loved because I exist. Because I’m me.

And if no one else is going to stand for me?

Then I will stand for myself.

Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s lonely. Even when it’s exhausting.

Because I’m learning that being my own safe place matters more than keeping anyone else comfortable.

So here’s to that little girl who never got protected. Here’s to the woman who’s building a life of peace. Here’s to finally saying:

Enough.

If the cost of being love is costing you your life, mental and physical health, and happiness, please, take a step back. Put up those boundaries and do what's necessary to protect yourself. You deserve better!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?list=RDAqRXiQkyxvI&v=AqRXiQkyxvI