#7 - Boundaries

I used to tell myself I’d do things differently. I wouldn’t follow the same work-first rhythm I grew up with. Then I caught myself looking at my phone while my kids were talking to me. They waited for me to come back to the moment. That pause said more than any Harry Chapin song ever could.

Some of us grow up believing that being useful makes us invaluable. We pitch in, we pull weight, we stay late. It works for a while. People trust us. Then one day we look up and realise that we’ve turned into the person who never stops. We step over our own edges without noticing. Boundaries blur, and we call it pride or duty or just keeping up.

Work has its own gravity. A message lights up the phone and our attention leans toward it before we’ve even thought about it. We tell ourselves that it’s only for a second, but the minute stretches. The person across from us waits, and the waiting has its own weight. My father brought work home in his briefcase. I brought mine home in a rectangle of glass that never slept. A “smart” phone.

That pull shows up elsewhere too. We naturally want to be the reliable one. The steady pair of hands. We say yes because we can, and sometimes because we worry what a no might say about us. Fear hides inside that habit. Fear of being the one who drops the ball. Fear of being replaced by AI. Fear that if you slow down for even a moment, the whole thing will move on without us.

But boundaries aren’t walls. They’re breathing space. My kids didn’t need me to quit my job. They needed me to put the phone down long enough to show I was actually in the room. It sounds simple. It isn’t. The tug between providing and being present can turn us inside out if we let it. We think we’re doing it for them, but the people we love want the version of us that looks up, not the one who’s always half somewhere else.

The economy doesn’t help. Costs rise, jobs feel shaky, and the pressure to prove our worth settles into our bones. We start believing the only safe place is to outrun the doubt. That if we stay visible, stay useful, and say yes fast enough, we’ll keep our place. I’ve lived that story. Many have. But it’s a story that eats the very life we think we’re securing.

The truth sits even quieter. We can care about our work and still guard the parts of ourselves that need tending. A boundary isn’t selfish. It’s a way of showing the people in our lives that they matter enough for us to turn our attention toward them, fully, not in the cracks between notifications.

And it’s not only family. Friends notice when we’re half-present. Colleagues notice when we’re stretched thin. Our own body notices first. Stress has a way of knocking before we do. Sometimes the smallest pause (closing the laptop, letting a call ring out, finishing the sentence in front of you before checking the buzz) can shift the whole room.

We don’t need to rebuild our lives to make it livable. Start small. Protect an hour. Protect the family dinner. Protect the moment someone talks to us and trusts that we’re there to hear it. Presence builds in small moves. Boundary by boundary. Day by day. And the people who care about us will feel the difference long before we do.

And when the phone lights up again, and it always does, we always get to choose where our attention goes. That choice, more than any workload or title or reputation, is what steadies a life.

If this stirred something familiar, you are not alone. In Australia, you can reach Lifeline 24/7 at 13 11 14.