Who in Your World Is Allowed to Feel?

There’s one phrase I can guarantee every therapist in America hears every single day: “I don’t know.” If I had a dollar for every time I heard that phrase, I’d have… a lot of dollars.

Sometimes I’ll be sitting across from someone who has just told me a story about something painful that happened with their spouse, or their mom, or their friend, and I’ll ask the obvious therapist question: “How did you feel when that happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Okay. “What do you want to happen?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

I have to admit that I’ve been a little stumped by this over the years. Because then I don’t know. And we can’t both be NOT KNOWING! I’m supposed to be doing something over here!

Of course, I don’t actually think my clients have nothing going on inside of them. Usually, there’s quite a lot going on in there. But for one reason or another, they can’t quite get to it. And lately I’ve found myself wondering about something.

Maybe you don’t know what you feel because someone else in your life has really big feelings. Feelings so big, in fact, that they eclipse yours.

Maybe a better question is: Who in your world is allowed to feel?

When Someone Else’s Feelings Fill the Room

You might know exactly what I mean by this. Maybe you grew up with a parent whose mood could change the feeling of the entire house. Dad came home irritated, and everyone knew it. Mom was upset, and suddenly the evening became about figuring out what was wrong with Mom.

Or maybe it wasn’t anger. Maybe it was anxiety. Maybe someone you loved worried so intensely that you learned to organize yourself around keeping them from worrying. Maybe disappointment was the big one. You could make your own choice, technically. Nobody was going to stop you. But then there would be the disappointment. The sigh. The silence. The wounded look. The questions. And at some point, choosing what you wanted stopped feeling worth all the administrative work that came afterward.

This happens in adult relationships, too. Sometimes one partner has feelings that are just...big. Their hurt is very hurt. Their fear is very afraid. Their disappointment has acquired square footage.

And I want to be careful here, because I don’t necessarily mean that the person with the big feelings is doing anything wrong. They might be. Certainly people can use emotion to control other people. But sometimes they aren’t.

Sometimes they’re just a person with a tender nervous system and a lot of feelings. Sometimes they grew up in a family where you had to practically set yourself on fire before anyone noticed you were hurting. Sometimes they’re struggling, too. You can love this person very much, you can understand exactly why they are the way they are, AND you can still lose track of yourself around them.

You Got Really Good at Something Else

Here’s the thing about kids: they adapt. If knowing Mom’s mood helps you stay connected to Mom, you get very, very good at knowing Mom’s mood. If Dad withdraws when he’s hurt, you learn to notice the withdrawal before he’s even left the room. If having preferences creates conflict, maybe you become the kid who “doesn’t care.”

Where do you want to eat? I don’t care. What do you want to do? Whatever you guys want. Are you upset? No, I’m fine.

After enough years of this, it can start to feel less like something you learned and more like who you are. I’m just easygoing. I’m a people pleaser. I’m really empathetic. I’m terrible at making decisions.

And maybe some of those things are true. But sometimes I wonder whether the person sitting across from me isn’t actually bad at knowing what she wants. Maybe she’s just gotten extraordinarily good at knowing what everybody else wants first.

Because think about what happens when she tries to answer the question: What do I want?

Well, what will he think? Will she be hurt? Is Mom going to worry? Will this disappoint him? Will everyone think I’m selfish? Will this start a fight? Can they handle it?

By the time she gets around to herself, there are twelve other people in the room.

Of course she can’t hear herself.

Your Feelings Might Be Quieter Than You Think

I think we sometimes expect desire to be loud. We imagine that somewhere deep inside us is a very confident version of ourselves who knows EXACTLY WHAT SHE WANTS, and if we could just heal enough or journal enough or go to enough therapy, she would emerge and announce the plan.

Unfortunately, I have rarely found this woman. If anyone locates her, please send her to my office.

Usually, desire is much less impressive than that.

Actually, I don’t really want to go. I think I’d rather sit over there. I want the expensive chair. I absolutely DO NOT like that. I want you to stop asking me. I’d really like an afternoon by myself.

Sometimes anger doesn’t arrive as rage. Sometimes it’s just that little flash of irritation when someone says something and you think, Ugh. Sometimes a boundary starts with noticing that every time a certain person calls, your stomach tightens. Sometimes desire is so small and ordinary that we dismiss it entirely.

But I think these tiny wants matter.

In fact, when I’m working with someone who has a hard time knowing what she wants from her marriage, her career, her faith, her life, I’m not sure I want to start with those enormous questions anymore. I might want to know what she wants for lunch. I want to know which coffee mug she likes to use in the mornings. I want to know whether she wants to go to the party.

Because maybe we don’t learn to want by starting with What do I want to do with my one wild and precious life? (Sorry, Mary Oliver.)

That feels like a lot of pressure for a Tuesday afternoon.

Maybe we start with: What do I want right now? In this exact moment?

And then we practice not immediately explaining it away.

You’re Allowed to Feel Something Without Doing Anything About It

There’s something else I’ve noticed in my office. Sometimes people can find the feeling, but they’re afraid of what will happen if they admit it’s there.

Because if I admit I’m angry with my husband, what does that mean about my marriage? If I admit I don’t want to spend Christmas with my family, does that mean I’m selfish? If I admit that I resent my kids sometimes, am I a terrible mother? If I admit I’m unhappy, do I have to leave?

No.

Feelings aren’t instructions.

I say some version of this to clients all the time: You’re allowed to know what’s happening inside of you without immediately deciding what you’re going to do about it.

You can be furious with someone and decide you don’t need to confront them. You can resent something and also recognize that you chose it. You can love your children desperately and sometimes want everyone in your house to stop needing things from you for approximately four consecutive hours. You can love your spouse and feel lonely with them. You can want something and decide, for very good reasons, not to have it.

Your feelings are information. They get to tell you something without getting to run the whole show.

And sometimes I think people need to know that before they can safely become curious about what they feel.

Maybe We Just Need to Make the Room Bigger

I think this is what I keep coming back to. Healthy relationships aren’t relationships where everyone feels the same way. They’re relationships where there’s enough room for more than one person to have an experience at the same time.

I can be disappointed that you said no, and you can still say no. You can be angry with me, and I can still believe I made the right decision. I can be sad about something you’ve chosen without requiring you to undo your choice so that I don’t have to be sad anymore. You can love me without rescuing me from every uncomfortable feeling I have.

My feelings don’t erase yours. And yours don’t erase mine.

This sounds simple when I write it down. It is not simple. Especially if you’ve spent years or decades living in a world where someone else’s feelings had more gravity than yours.

So if you’re someone who says “I don’t know” a lot, I don’t think you necessarily need to interrogate yourself harder. Maybe, instead, you could get curious.

When something happens, whose feelings do you look for first? Whose disappointment can change your answer? Whose anger makes you abandon your own? Who gets to be sad in your family? Who gets to be angry? Who gets to be needy? Who gets to say, “I don’t like this”?

Who gets to want?

Because maybe the question isn’t just, Why don’t I know what I feel?

Maybe it’s: Who in my world is allowed to feel?

And then, maybe the harder question:

Is there room in that world for me, too?