The Knot in My Stomach
I have responsibility for my life and can choose when to welcome others into it.
The phone buzzes and my chest tightens before I even see the name. My body knows before my mind does—someone wants something, and I haven't decided if I can say no yet. This is the tax I pay for being "available."
I learned early that love meant an open door. No locks, no questions asked, no "not right now." The Nice Girl keeps her calendar flexible, her phone charged, her emotional bandwidth infinite. Boundaries felt selfish, like hanging a "Closed" sign on my heart.
But an open door without a gate isn't hospitality—it's a house with no walls. Anyone can wander through. I'm exhausted from traffic that never asked permission to enter.
Al-Anon is teaching me that the knot in my stomach is my body's gatekeeper, doing the job my mind refused. The anxiety isn't irrational—it's my soul protesting the invasion. The physical discomfort of boundary-setting is real, but so is the relief when I finally say, "Not today." I'm learning that selectivity isn't cruelty. It's the difference between a home and a thoroughfare.
When the phone rings and my chest tightens, I can pause before answering. I can notice the physical anxiety and ask: Do I have the capacity for this conversation right now, or am I just saying yes because I always have? Can I practice saying "I'll call you back" and see if the world ends when I do?
