Shedding My Inhibitions
In the early years, I was a people pleaser. I didn’t want to create waves. I was the teacher’s pet—the one who followed directions, finished assignments early, and made sure my name stayed in good standing. I didn’t argue. I didn’t question. I did what I was told, because somewhere deep down, I assumed other people knew better.
I didn’t trust my own opinions or ideas. It wasn’t that I lacked them—just that I didn’t think they held much weight. My inhibitions were rooted in the belief that someone else’s voice mattered more than mine. So I made choices by looking around and following the lead of others. When my sister Lisa chose a college, I chose the same one. I didn’t tour campuses. I didn’t compare programs. I just figured, she made a good choice. That’ll work for me too.
In a way, that approach made life easy. If something didn’t work out, it wasn’t really my fault—because I hadn’t truly made the decision. There was a strange kind of comfort in that. If a class was a bad fit or a roommate situation got messy, I could shrug it off. I’d been following someone else’s lead. It was like emotional insurance—low risk, low ownership. But also… low identity.
I remember wanting to join a sorority. It had always appealed to me—something about the sisterhood, the traditions, the connection. But the girls I lived with weren’t interested. And just like that, I let it go. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t investigate it on my own. I didn’t want to be the only one doing something different. My inhibitions kept me quiet. So I swallowed the desire and moved on.
That pattern followed me into adulthood. When I moved into my first apartment—and later my first house—I decorated it exactly the way my mom suggested. I didn’t even stop to consider if I liked the paint job or the furniture style. If she approved of it, that was good enough for me.
It wasn’t until I was about 37 years old—just as I was beginning the process of becoming single again—that something finally shifted. And this time, it wasn’t quiet.
The change was messy. Emotional. There were loud arguments with my mom—more than I care to remember. She disagreed with the direction I was heading, and for the first time, I didn’t fold under the pressure. I stood my ground, even when it shook beneath me. It wasn’t about rebellion. It was about reclaiming something I had lost sight of for far too long: my own voice.
That season marked the beginning of my real adulthood. Not the legal kind, but the emotional kind. The kind where you start asking hard questions and making choices based on what you want—not just what feels safe, or what keeps everyone else happy.
Since then, it’s been a gradual process. I’ve had to learn to trust my instincts. To stop asking for approval before making a move. To decorate a room in a way that feels like home to me—not just something that gets a polite nod from someone else. It’s taken time, and yes, some uncomfortable conversations have followed. But with each step, I’ve moved closer to someone I recognize.
Looking back, I see how deeply my inhibitions were woven into fear—fear of conflict, fear of judgment, fear of being wrong. But now I know: there’s power in owning your choices. There’s peace in knowing your voice matters. And there’s freedom in finally becoming the person you were always meant to be.
These days, I’m especially struck by how naturally my kids make their own decisions. Jessica had the courage to join a sorority, unlike me. Nathan chose to enlist in the reserves, carving his own path with quiet confidence. And Brad made the decision to move out on his own, trusting himself to take that next step. Watching them trust their instincts, follow their curiosity, and stand on their own reminds me just how far I’ve come—and how important it is to keep going.
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