From "Fuck You" to "I Love You"

How my boundaries evolved from cutting people out to serving the shape of love

There’s a lot of bullshit kicking around online about boundaries. It’s a buzzword now, like other forms of therapy-speak, and most people are getting it wrong. Boundaries don’t attempt to control other people; they clarify your standards in relationship. They’re an inside job, and they arise in many different ways. How we want to be treated is shaped by experience—a unique mix of childhood conditioning, relational history, and sociocultural influence.

For a long time, my boundaries formed with “fuck you” energy. They protected me, and they often arose from anger, hurt, disappointment, or loss. It was an all-or-nothing proposition. Navigating how others treated me felt easier when I categorized people as safe or unsafe. Fuck-you boundaries are useful here; they generate the energy required to cut people out.

I stayed in that all-or-nothing place for years because threat still lived in my body. I think of it as noise or static—a constant low-grade hum that makes it hard to hear safety. Trauma residue turns even uncertainty into the “predator in the bushes.” Any brush against someone’s blind spot felt dangerous, like a personal affront. The fastest way to feel safe was to sort people into: keep or cut.

I was on the phone with my dad when he drifted into a subject I had decided was off-limits: triangulation around my brother’s no-contact boundary.

Triangulation is when someone pulls a third person into their unresolved tension with someone else—venting, complaining, or asking them to mediate instead of dealing with the conflict directly.

I took a deep breath and paused for about three seconds. Then I ran a simple internal check:

What did I hear?
How do I feel?
What am I going to do?

I heard him swerve into a topic that was off-limits. I felt calm and grounded. I decided I would find an opening and redirect the conversation. Boundary entered.

My dad course-corrected for about three sentences, then tried again. Same process.

What did I hear?
How do I feel?
What am I going to do?

I heard him cross the boundary a second time. I was still grounded, but now slightly annoyed. I decided I would redirect again. This time with more tone, and then follow through. I did. He dropped it. There was an awkward silence. I held firm.

This shift in how I navigate relationships happened when my nervous system began to trust that I could handle discomfort without collapsing or lashing out. Safety moved from “no threat allowed” to “I can regulate through this and still choose what serves me.”

I love my dad, but he has blind spots. In many ways, he was relating to a role I used to play: the son who regulates the room. The problem is, I’m no longer available for that role. My dad is unlikely to update his mental model of me, so I have to decide what shape our relationship will take.

I want to catch up with him. I want to hear about his life. I understand the limitations, and I now have the relational and nervous-system skills to navigate that complexity. This is where boundaries come from love.

I no longer need boundaries to sever. My boundaries help me navigate, and when necessary, define consequences. I want to stay in relationship with my dad, but without clearly articulated standards, it would be unnecessarily painful. Boundaries define what is possible. Once that shape is clear, I can put my energy into loving within it.

I’m still willing to walk away from what doesn’t serve me. But now it’s a choice, not a reaction.

The more I trust myself, the fewer hard edges my boundaries need. And to be clear: the scrappy, fuck-you kind helped shape who I am. I’m grateful for them. These days, though, my boundaries are quieter. They’re standards I live by in relationship; shaped by a curiosity that asks, How can I love here? without shrinking, contorting, abandoning myself, or grasping.

And tempered by the wisdom of fuck you.