When Empathy Becomes Self-Abandonment

There’s a line from Coming to America that has lived rent-free in my head for years. King Jaffe Joffer tells Akeem, “You see son, there is a very fine line between love and nausea.” Madge Sinclair’s (the Queen) facial expression does it for me every time! LOL

But recently, I realized there might be another very fine line I’ve been walking for most of my life:

The line between empathy and self-abandonment.

I have considered my ability to understand people one of my strengths. I can usually imagine what might be happening underneath someone’s behavior. I have learned to hold complexity. I can recognize that people can love us and disappoint us, and that people can hurt us without necessarily intending to. I’ve learned that someone else’s behavior may be connected to circumstances, wounds, fears, limitations, or experiences I know nothing about.

That kind of perspective-taking is important. It’s part of being compassionate. I’d like to believe it’s also part of what makes me good at the work I do.But I’m realizing that sometimes what I have called empathy hasn’t actually been empathy. Sometimes it has been anxiety with excellent clinical language.

Sometimes I’m not simply considering another person’s perspective. I’m building their entire defense.

Maybe they’re overwhelmed.

Maybe they’re going through something.

Maybe I misunderstood.

Maybe I could have communicated differently.

Maybe I should have called instead of texted.

Maybe I expected too much.

Maybe they didn’t mean it like that.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

And before I know it, I have created an elaborate explanation for someone who has not actually explained themselves to me. Even more importantly, somewhere in the process, I disappear.

What did I experience?

What did I feel?

What did I need?

What hurt?

What disappointed me?

What am I angry about?

I can become so busy making someone else’s behavior understandable that I never allow myself to simply acknowledge its impact on me… and I’m beginning to understand where some of that comes from.

When understanding people feels like safety

As I reflected on in my blog post, “When Silence Feels Like Rejection,” growing up, conflict could sometimes mean disconnection. When my mother and I had disagreements, or if I’d misbehaved, there were times when she would become silent or affection would feel withdrawn. As a child, I didn’t have language for what those experiences were teaching my nervous system. I just knew that relational tension could feel like losing access to love.

As children, we learn to adapt. We learn how to read rooms, and to anticipate moods. We learn which versions of ourselves seem to maintain connection. Sometimes we learn that if we can understand what another person is feeling quickly enough, perhaps we can prevent the rupture. That adaptation can follow us into adulthood wearing much more sophisticated clothing. Now it looks like empathy. Perspective-taking. Self-reflection. Accountability. All beautiful things. Except sometimes underneath them is still a scared part of us asking: What did I do, and how do I fix it before you stop loving me?

When accountability becomes an attempt at control

This may be the part that has surprised me most. I have grown to value accountability deeply. I want to be someone who can examine herself, acknowledge harm, apologize, repair, and grow. But I’m realizing that trauma can influence what accountability feels like, too. There is a difference between asking: “What part of this genuinely belongs to me?” and asking: “What can I find that I did wrong so I can make this relationship feel safe again?” Those questions can sound remarkably similar inside your head. They are not the same. One is accountability. The other can be an attempt to regain control over relational uncertainty. Because uncertainty is hard.

Sometimes it is easier for me to believe that I did something wrong than to accept that another person has agency I cannot control. If I caused it, maybe I can fix it. If I said the wrong thing, maybe I can explain it better. If I expected too much, maybe I can expect less. If I failed somewhere, maybe I can apologize enough. 

There is something strangely comforting about making myself responsible. Responsibility gives me an assignment. The nerdy part of me is pretty damn good assignments. Uncertainty gives me nothing to do. And I am learning that sometimes there is simply nothing for me to do.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

This is currently one of the most uncomfortable sentences in my vocabulary. Maybe. I don’t know.

Maybe the person is overwhelmed. I don’t know.

Maybe I misunderstood their intentions. I don’t know.

Maybe they are hurt. I don’t know.

Maybe their behavior has absolutely nothing to do with me. I don’t know.

The goal isn’t to force myself into the opposite story. I don’t need to decide that someone is malicious just so I can stop making excuses for them. I don’t need to turn them into the villain so I can finally validate myself. I can simply stop pretending that possibilities are facts. Empathy can say: “There may be things happening for this person that I cannot see.” Self-abandonment adds: “Therefore, I must keep searching for an explanation that makes their behavior hurt less.”

I can understand you without explaining you away

I can understand someone’s humanity and still acknowledge my own hurt.This has been such a pivotal revelation in my life. I can recognize their wounds and maintain my boundaries. I can consider their perspective without using it as evidence against mine. I can acknowledge that someone may not have intended to hurt me while still honoring the fact that I was hurt.

Intent matters. Impact matters too.

Context matters. Patterns matter too.

Compassion matters. And I matter too.

What do I actually know?

I’m practicing something new when I feel myself entering the rabbit hole. Instead of immediately figuring out the other person, I’m trying to ask myself: What do I know? What actually happened? Not what I think it means. Not why I think they did it. Not what childhood wound might explain their behavior. Just: what happened? Then, I ask myself: What am I imagining to fill in the blanks? This is where all my “maybes” live. And again, those explanations may eventually turn out to be correct. But until I actually know, they are stories. And I can only know if they genuinely and honestly  volunteer that information on their own.

Next, I ask myself: What am I feeling? This may be the hardest question. Because explaining another person can sometimes be much easier than admitting: That hurt. I’m disappointed. I feel rejected. I’m angry. I miss them. I wanted something different. I don’t like this. Those statements don’t require anyone else to be wrong. They simply require me to be honest.

Finally, I ask myself: Is there actually something for me to do? Sometimes there is. I can communicate. I can apologize. I can ask a question. I can clarify. I can repair. I can initiate a conversation because doing so reflects the kind of person I want to be. But sometimes my desire to do something is really my desire to make uncertainty stop. And those are not the same thing either.

Accountability can wait for information

Here’s another wild concept I am learning: I don’t have to apologize for every conceivable offense before anyone tells me they have been hurt. I don’t have to anticipate every interpretation someone might have of me. I don’t have to conduct an entire trial in my head, serve as both prosecutor and defendant, and somehow still find myself guilty. I can wait for information.

If someone tells me I hurt them, I can listen. If I recognize something I genuinely need to own, I can own it. If repair is needed and possible, I can participate in repair. But I do not have to manufacture wrongdoing to explain someone else’s behavior. That isn’t accountability. In my case, it’s anxiety and fear trying to make themselves useful.

And apparently, I have to let people misunderstand me

I hate this lesson. Zero stars. Do not recommend (I’m kidding). 🤣😫😭😮‍💨🙃🫣

And yet, here we are.

Someone may misunderstand something I said. Someone may have feelings about me I don’t agree with. Someone may tell themselves a story about my intentions that does not reflect what was in my heart. And unless they invite me into a conversation about it, I may not get to correct their version of me.

That can feel excruciating when being misunderstood feels connected to the possibility of losing love. Everything in me may want to rush in: Wait, let me explain. That’s not what I meant. Let me give you more context. Let me make sure you know I understand your side. Let me fix whatever version of me currently exists in your head.

But adulthood keeps teaching me something my younger self could not have known: I can survive being misunderstood. I can survive someone being disappointed in me. I can survive relational uncertainty. I can survive another person needing space. I can even survive relationships changing. None of those things requires me to abandon myself first.

Self-awareness is awkward before it becomes freedom

This is new for me. And honestly, I feel a little like a fish out of water. There is something strange about becoming conscious of a pattern while your body is still very much accustomed to performing it. I can now hear myself starting the explanations. I can recognize the urge to take excessive responsibility. I can sometimes feel myself reaching for another person’s perspective before I have even acknowledged my own.

Seeing it doesn’t mean I automatically know how to stop doing it. Maybe that’s part of my healing too. At first, we notice ourselves twenty minutes into the spiral. Then maybe ten. Eventually five. Perhaps one day we catch ourselves at the first “maybe.” 

And for someone like myself, I have to be careful not to turn this into another performance. I don’t need to become exceptionally good at healing. I don’t need to criticize myself every time an old survival strategy appears. I don’t need to turn self-awareness into another courtroom.

I am practicing.

Practicing staying with myself when connection feels uncertain.

Practicing letting unanswered questions remain unanswered.

Practicing taking responsibility for what actually belongs to me instead of everything I can possibly imagine belonging to me.

Practicing allowing empathy to expand my perspective without erasing my experience.

Practicing the possibility that I can love someone, understand someone, extend grace toward someone—and still tell myself the truth about what something feels like for me.

Maybe that is the line I am learning to recognize. The line between empathy and self-abandonment. And perhaps the question that helps me stay on my side of it is this: Can I make room for your humanity without evicting myself from the room?

I think I’m finally learning that I can.