Preface: Between extremes
We live in an age of polarisation. Politically, a lot has already been said. But let’s talk about the other type: emotional polarisation. On one side, we are inundated with the gospel of radical self-care, which encourages cutting out “toxic” people with the same ease as switching skincare brands. On the other, we are haunted by inherited scripts of self-abandonment, the quiet obligation to always show up, to always hold space, to always absorb the emotional overflow of others, regardless of personal cost.
At the heart of this tension lies a collective burnout, born of a culture where autonomy is eroding and resilience is fraying. In a landscape saturated with therapy-speak reduced to hashtags (“boundaries,” “inner child,” “triggered”) people are trying, often desperately, to curate emotional safety in a world that no longer offers much of it systemically.
This impulse is understandable. The desire to guard one's peace has become not only therapeutic, but protective against the creeping encroachment of unwanted emotional labour, particularly in friendships where the roles are often unclear and expectations unspoken. Here too, the gendered dynamics of emotional labour do not go unnoticed: female friendships are often tasked with holding what male partners (and patriarchy at large) rarely shoulder.
But in this swing from total exposure to total withdrawal, something essential is being lost: the art of remaining soft and available, without surrendering oneself entirely.
In this essay, I offer a middle path: one that neither exalts detachment nor glorifies over-extension. It is a map for navigating the space between, where empathy and boundaries are not adversaries, but collaborators. Where softness and vulnerability is strength.
The Ethical Anxiety of Care
The ethical anxiety of boundaries is not new, especially in feminist, postcolonial, and affect theory. Historically, those socialised as caretakers (read: women) are conditioned to conflate moral goodness with availability. This is not just interpersonal, it’s systemic. Society rewards those who serve, accommodate, and disappear themselves in the name of harmony.
Your discomfort? It’s the psychic residue of this conditioning. You are resisting the internalised message that to be “good,” you must be open, accessible, endlessly flexible -even to your own detriment.
To navigate the world with both softness and strength is to constantly question whether one is being selfish or self-abandoning. For those socialised to equate goodness with availability, the act of drawing a boundary can feel like a betrayal; not of others, but of a learned self-image. This is the tension between relational generosity and personal sovereignty. And it is within this tension that modern emotional ethics are shaped: either we retreat completely , or we self-sacrifice until we inevitably “explode”.
Selfishness is not choosing oneself. It is choosing only oneself, regardless of consequence.
Self-abandonment is choosing only others, regardless of cost.
True relational ethics reject both.
Neither is without consequence. A life of retreat, of total emotional withdrawal, is not safety, it is erosion. It risks abandoning the very human necessity of community, intimacy, and the social contracts that bind us. (A must read for more on this critique: How to do Nothing.) We cannot cut our way to connection. We must learn how to speak, how to stay, and how to stand firm without standing alone. Likewise, constant self-abandonment, particularly for women, is not a virtue but a quiet form of systemic compliance. It ensures that only the most emotionally detached, self-interested, or socially protected individuals rise to the top. We see this clearly in leadership and institutional power, where narcissism is rewarded and care is punished. If we do not learn to protect ourselves without retreating, we create a world in which only the least emotionally available survive. The challenge, then, is not whether we withdraw or overextend: it is how we build the emotional tools to remain present, discerning, and accountable within community.
Instead, we arrive at the elegant middle: self-containment or selfless love. Not closure, not denial. Integrity. It is the ability to care without collapsing. To say "no" without harm. To say "yes" without self-erasure.
To illustrate, let me use the Tarot. Enter: The Nine of Wands as a psychic and theoretical text. This is Judith Butler’s “precarious life” meets Audre Lorde’s “self-care as warfare”. The Nine of Wands knows what it’s like to be exhausted from emotional labour and still be expected to say “yes” with a smile.
But here’s the plot twist Temperance brings: The goal isn’t to swing from martyrdom to stonewalling. It’s to reclaim yourself as the primary subject of your own ethical universe. That means care becomes relational, but not self-erasing. It means empathy with structure. Softness with strategy.
Now, how do we move our energy from The Nine of Wands, to embody Temperance? Non-violent expression of needs and boundaries. Both respecting those of others, and upholding those of ourselves.
Boundaries as relational architecture
Boundaries are not barricades. They are containers. They give shape to self-hood, providing the structural integrity that allows authentic connection. Contrary to popular belief: a boundary is not a wall, it is a vessel. It allows presence without performance, intimacy without depletion.
To set a boundary is to say: “This is where I remain intact. This is how I stay kind without becoming compliant.”
And yet, this act is frequently met with resistance, especially when delivered softly. In a culture that often equates force with sincerity, gentleness is mistaken for flexibility. A calm “no” is misheard as an opening, an invitation for debate, rather than a conclusion.
Yet this is often where discomfort erupts. Too many friendships break not at the boundary itself, but at the defensiveness that meets it. (Especially by those who have been pouring too much of their cup into others.) Boundaries, or the expression of a need, are too often delivered far too late: when frustration has already reached a boiling point, when we have gone unheard, or when we finally do speak, we are ill-prepared for the discomfort of the answer. These conversations often arrive in violent form: a last-ditch effort to control, rather than a gentle invitation to understanding. Here is where so many fail.
Non-Violent Communication: A Language of Life (Marshall B. Rosenberg)
We must also recognise that communication of needs is not optional. Others cannot intuit or feel our inner worlds by magic. Speaking our needs aloud is a risk, because we may be met with defensiveness, indifference, or even hostility. But this is the cost of emotional maturity. Without this skill, we drift further into loneliness and resentment. No amount of “cutting ‘toxic’ people off” will resolve the deeper fracture if we never practice speaking before severing.
To communicate, both a need or a boundary, non-violently is to refuse domination while preserving dignity. It requires clarity without cruelty. Assertiveness without aggression. Marshall Rosenberg's framework of Non-Violent Communication provides a useful model:
Observation: Identify what is happening without judgement.
Feeling: Express the emotional impact.
Need: Articulate the underlying value or requirement.
Request: Offer a clear, actionable path forward.
Non-violent communication, likewise, can be used to express a longing for connection. Vulnerably naming feelings of neglect is not a demand, not an offence, but an offering:
“I've been feeling a little distance lately and miss spending time with you. I know we're both navigating a lot, but I'd love to find a moment soon to reconnect, if you're open to it.”
To express a need non-violently (not: “you haven’t been showing up”) without expecting a guarantee, is to trust that the relationship is resilient enough to hold honesty. And to receive a “no” with grace is to acknowledge that care does not always mean availability. It requires emotional resilience, the ability to remain rooted in one’s self-worth while accepting that others cannot, and should not, be expected to carry our needs for us. We can ask. We can hope. But true connection honours the autonomy of the other. Without that autonomy, care becomes obligation, and the relationship loses its integrity. In doing so, we create space for authentic yeses and deeper mutual respect.
“I know we've had difficulty finding time to meet. I'm feeling overwhelmed as I finish this phase of my work, and I need some protected time to focus. I'd love to reconnect once things are more settled.”
This is not conflict avoidance. It is conflict refinement. A way of engaging with others that preserves both self and relationship.
Yet this is often where discomfort erupts. Too many friendships break not at the boundary itself, but at the defensiveness that meets it. When someone hears a vulnerable need and responds with hostility or moral panic, “Are you calling me a bad person? Selfish? I’m always the one stretching myself thin for others!”, it reveals an inability to be present in the discomfort of relational truth. Non-violent communication demands not only gentle expression, but mature reception. Otherwise, we are not in a friendship—we are in a hierarchy of emotional control.
In Sara Ahmed’s terms, your discomfort is the “feminist killjoy” effect. You are disrupting the flow of expected emotional labour and being punished for it. You were supposed to say yes. You said no. The social fabric wrinkled, and people blame you, not the patriarchal stitching.
But boundaries are not rejection. They are relational ethics. They say:
“I want this connection to survive, and I cannot do that if I am dying in it.”
The dance of relating: between need and autonomy
The uncomfortable truth? To expect others to meet our needs on demand, without question or limitation, is to risk turning vulnerability into entitlement. Not being able to meet our own needs, and then punishing, villainising, or “cutting them off” for not stepping in exactly when or how we desire, is a refusal to uphold their boundaries. Emotional maturity means understanding that disappointment is not betrayal, and discomfort is not a license for disconnection.
We may feel justified in our pain, but self-regulation demands we take responsibility for our response, not outsource it. Friendship is a shared practice, not a service. In moments of mismatch, we do not have to disappear or punish. We can take note. We can adjust the closeness of the relationship. We can wait and see if the other returns with reciprocity, or we can continue without them, with grace. This is not a philosophy of “I don’t owe anyone anything,” nor is it one of total self-sacrifice. It is the space in between. A place of choice, reflection, and respect.
To respect another person's boundary is an act of love. It is also a dance: one where each participant must listen, adjust, and refrain from stepping on toes. This includes accepting the other’s “no” without interpretation, resentment, or retribution.
When someone says no:
It is not rejection. It is information.
It is not a verdict. It is a signal.
It is not about you. It is about them, being honest in your presence.
If we demand vulnerability but cannot tolerate boundaries, we are not engaging in intimacy, we are engaging in control.
Similarly, if we express our own needs with vulnerability and non-violently, we must also cultivate trust. Trust in ourselves, in our ability to deal with the response. & Trust that the other will receive us with care, not volatility. Real friendship is not just measured by how well we bond in closeness, but by how gently we hold each other in the discomfort of unmet needs. And when needs cannot be met, we adjust the shape of the relationship, not out of anger, but out of care.
It is also important to name that (true) friendship should never be a place where emotional explosions are normalised. Yes, sometimes, a friend may blow up not out of cruelty, but from accumulated hurt or unspoken need. Perhaps they wanted more closeness and didn’t know how to ask. Perhaps they were afraid of being vulnerable. Perhaps they thought they were protecting you by not asking more from you. But the moment of rupture is not the end. If they take accountability (and only then), we can choose to stay; not as a doormat, but as someone strong enough to sit in the aftermath with grace.
Giving someone another chance is not the same as tolerating harm. It is saying: I can witness where that came from (your exhaustion, your fear, your unmet need), and I can stay, but only if we both commit to doing better. Cutting someone off is sometimes necessary, but often, it is a last resort when we have not developed the skills, or the self-trust, to say: this hurt me, and this cannot happen again. We stay soft. We stay strong. And we learn how to repair.
Soft, yet boundaried
Softness, within a feminist framework, is not a defect. It is a radical act of trust. In a culture that privileges domination, speed, and emotional detachment, softness disrupts. Softness is often confused with passivity, a weakness, with being walked over, or with being too agreeable to be taken seriously. In truth, soft presence requires immense inner strength. Women, in particular, are conditioned to perform a specific kind of softness -pleasing, appeasing, accommodating- while simultaneously punished when that softness is misunderstood as submission or unseriousness.
True softness, however, is neither collapse nor compliance. It is a politically charged, self-sourced strength. It asks us to remain open-hearted and discerning at once, even in moments of misunderstanding or misinterpretation. It is the courage to remain receptive in a world that constantly demands performance. To be soft and boundaried is to trust yourself enough to stand in your own integrity, even when others don't, or won't, see you clearly. It is the discipline of staying rooted in your values even when others cannot, or will not (/should not?), validate them. To be soft and boundaried is to cultivate enough self-trust to stand calmly in your no, and enough emotional maturity to do so without villainizing the other.
This is the kind of softness that listens deeply, but does not absorb projection. It is assertive without being aggressive. It allows you to walk away when necessary, but also to stay and repair; if there is accountability, and if the relationship deserves your presence. It is not about tolerating harm. It is about discerning what is worth returning to.
This is the kind of softness that does not collapse or contort itself for approval. It holds space without abandoning the self. And it holds others accountable without needing to punish them. It is the quiet refusal to villainize the other or oneself. We are solely responsible for the way we act, and if we can stand with that in integrity, there is no need to assign blame to another for how they responded to our truth. If they could not meet us, we can say we are not compatible, or adjust the relationship accordingly. This is not an act of cruelty, it is a commitment to clarity. It is relational maturity, practised gently, and it is essential.
Together, they offer the possibility of sustainable, mutual presence. Where one can say, “This is what I can give,” and the other can respond, “Thank you for your truth.”
This is the essence of relational ethics.
This is the path away from performance, and toward integrity.