Unlearning the girl I had to be
Angel Green
February 1, 2026
Wood playgrounds were the worst. I was always getting splinters, but somehow that never stopped me from going back every day.
I was waiting my turn for the long, scorching metal slide when something beyond the playground caught my attention. On the other side of the chain link fence, an elderly man walked slowly past. He looked exhausted, like life had been heavy on him for a long time. His face was tense, his brows folded deep with wrinkles that looked carved in place.
Maybe he was sad. Maybe he was angry. I didn’t know.
What I did know was the strange ache in my chest as I watched him. I remember thinking, “that poor man… he must have no one…I’m going to marry someone like that someday, so they don’t end up alone”.
And then, as a child, I came to a conclusion that would quietly follow me for years:
“They need me”
I’m not exactly sure when this instinct to save people began, but I know it was already living in me by first grade. Maybe it grew out of the way I was spoken to every day how love and cruelty came from the same voice. One moment I was too much, too sensitive, too ugly.
“You’re so ugly when you cry.” “I should have aborted you.” “You are exactly like your brother.”
And then, just hours later, it would turn into:
“You are the greatest blessing in my life” “What would I do without you?”
Confusing… right ?!?!? As a child, I didn’t have the words for emotional instability. I just learned that love was unpredictable,safety could disappear without warning, being wanted was something I had to earn. Somewhere in that confusion, I started believing that if I could love people hard enough, protect them enough, stay loyal enough, then maybe they wouldn’t leave.
I thought I was learning how to love people.
What I was really learning was how to abandon myself first.
“What was the response when you expressed sadness or anger?” my therapist asks gently, as I sit on the couch during my weekly session, staring at the wall.
The words come out one by one
Liar, Dramatic,Stupid ,Selfish, Idiot
I grew up being told what to feel, how to feel, and when my emotions were acceptable. So now as an adult I don’t trust my own emotions. If I feel sad, I tell myself I’m being dramatic. If I set a boundary, I feel selfish. If I speak up, I question whether I’m overreacting.
To this day part of me still hears those voices before I hear my own.
I’m learning that I didn’t exist to rescue anyone. I was an empathetic child who grew into a people pleaser without boundaries.
Just to be clear this is not an excuse for the behavior I still struggle with.
There are moments when I feel triggered and anger rises quickly, usually when I set a boundary and don’t follow through, or when the old voices grow so loud that I no longer know what to believe.
“He only talks to you to get to me,” my mother-in-law would say.
I didn’t grow up with grandparents, and I always wished I had them. So when I got married, it was easy to form a fast, deep bond with his. I loved them as if they were my own. And I believe they loved me too.
But connections like these were often questioned.
“Grandpa only came to visit because he wants information about my mom,” my husband would say. And while it hurt to hear, I understand now that this was the mindset he was raised in. He didn’t say it with malice. He said it because he had been taught to doubt, to agree, to assume ulterior motives where there were none.
Moments like these taught my brain to mistrust love itself. They blurred the lines between safety and suspicion, between affection and danger. Over time, I learned to question every connection, every kindness, every relationship.
I learned to control the ending of relationships, because not knowing when someone might leave feels unbearable. I have learned to shift my personality depending on who I am with, becoming whatever version of myself feels most likely to be accepted.
Because I want to connect so badly, I learn everything about people, their stories, their wounds, their patterns and interests. For many years I thought this meant I was good with people.
“This will make me a great leader one day” I used to tell myself.
(Turns out, I don’t actually want to lead or manage anyone) I confused that with being “nice.” I thought I was just deeply caring, deeply attentive, deeply invested. Unfortunately, some of what I was actually doing came from fear, not kindness.
The truth is harder to admit, I wasn’t adapting because I was socially skilled, I was adapting because I didn’t have a stable sense of self.
One of the most painful habits I’m still unlearning is how I use my words when I feel hurt. When you study someone deeply, you also learn exactly where they’re vulnerable and when my nervous system feels threatened, I know how to aim for those places. I know how to make sure the other person hurts too.
I still remember something I said in middle school to a friend who was struggling with her absent father: “That’s why your dad left you.”
It was cruel. It was hypocritical. And it came from pain, not strength.
I've developed a habit of being defensive because I don't like being wrong, but… I’m learning that healing isn’t just about managing my emotions, it's about taking responsibility for how my pain has shown up in other people's lives.
Talking about people, I've noticed a pattern in who I feel drawn to. It’s often the people who seem to be struggling, the ones who carry sadness quietly, the ones who look like they might need love. Something in me still leans toward them automatically, almost instinctively.
I recognize that feeling. It's the same one I had as a little girl standing on the playground, watching a tired old man through a chain link fence, that same ache in my chest, that same belief “they need me”.
The difference now is awareness. I’m learning that compassion does not have to mean responsibility. That empathy does not require self sacrifice. That I can care deeply about people without abandoning myself to do it.
It turns out these patterns are learned responses to environments where I didn’t feel safe, seen, or consistently loved. Some of those patterns now carry the name Borderline Personality Disorder, and while the diagnosis explains a lot, it doesn’t define me.
What defines me is the work I’m doing now, the slow, uncomfortable, honest process of unlearning survival, practicing self trust, and taking accountability. I am not who I used to be, but I am not finished either. I am still becoming, still learning, still healing.
I am an Angel… in progress.