Quinn Steele

I have a long history of making myself small for the comfort of others. If I was small, they were free to take up all the space, to behave however they wished, even if that behavior wasn’t something I agreed with, enjoyed, or found acceptable. I thought if I simply opted out of engaging, maybe I wouldn’t feel the sting of disconnection and loneliness. At least it would be my choice to disconnect. 

I didn’t understand or relate to people who were loud or talked incessantly; I didn’t understand the aggressive need to be heard. I didn’t like how it devalued and diminished everyone else, their aggressive need to be heard, to be dealt with. So I opted out, excused myself from the game altogether. I wasn’t going to respond to their demands. 

But this aggressive need to be heard was in my home, so I was opting out more than I was opting in. I learned to live on the fringe, to emerge only when I was alone. I created boundaries and ways of surviving that didn’t serve me well later in life. When your default response to anything that feels unsafe is to opt out – it doesn’t lend well to establishing lasting, healthy relationships. 

As an adult, this influenced how I chose partners. No surprise, I chose people whose needs were more demanding and louder than mine. But I took a different role than I had when I was young. Part of me opted out, I sanctioned parts of myself that they could never touch, never access. I withheld important parts of myself to keep them safe. The other part of me was a care-taker, someone who gave them the audience, love, and attention they needed to feel heard and validated. I loved and cared for them, but I was never truly in partnership with them. 

I suppressed huge, sweeping aspects of who I was, because those parts threatened their sense of safety, and because I’d rarely had anyone appreciate them and not attempt to change them. The more I allowed my truth to emerge, the more they felt unsafe, and the louder they became. I felt that my truths had no place in this world, that they couldn’t exist without upsetting someone. So I continued to protect them fiercely. I could only hear myself when I was alone, or away from my partner. I repeated the old pattern of my childhood, which taught me that who I was made others feel bad.. 

I turned off my sexuality, took my athleticism and intensity to the gym, reserved my ambition for the workplace, saved my true feelings for poetry and singing in the car when I was alone. Living this way was never sustainable, I couldn’t maintain these two, separate tracks. I felt like a caged animal. 

I started working on this issue in earnest about nine years ago. Since that time, I’ve freed and caged myself numerous times, always grappling with these two sides of myself that I could never fully integrate. I quit my job of over seventeen years, got divorced, moved several times, semi-retired, started and ended two relationships, and I’ve had ebbs and flows of being able to hear myself throughout all of these.

I still don’t know how to merge these sides of myself within the context of a close, intimate relationship. Right now, I’m enjoying the resurgence of the parts of myself that I’ve suppressed for years. I’m more inspired, free, and alive than I’ve been in many years. I am giving myself permission to emerge from the cage, I am learning to allow my true voice to ring out, to stop apologizing for the discomfort it may stir in others. 

I have no idea where this is leading me, but I’ve never been particularly tied to knowledge, certainty, or permanence. I am focused now on finding joy, in appreciating the shining, raw moments that fill each day. I am committed to feeling all that comes, and to avoiding the perceived safety and familiarity of the cage.