Grief after self-illusions, which I wrote about last time, leaves something valuable in its wake: a clearer sight. And one of the clearest and most painful things this clarity produces is recognising how much energy you have invested in being who you thought others wanted you to be, at the expense of who you truly are. Recognising that somewhere along the way, you began to abandon yourself in order to keep others comfortable.

This is one of the most frequent and least recognised forms of self-loss.

What does it mean to abandon yourself for others' happiness? It is not necessarily something dramatic. It is often a collection of small and repeated things.

It is saying yes when you want to say no. It is hiding your real state because you do not want to be a burden. It is adjusting your opinion according to what you think the other wants to hear. It is giving up your own needs without having been asked to, anticipating someone else's dissatisfaction. It is censoring your joy, sadness, or anger because you do not want to disturb the balance in the relationship.

All of these, taken separately, seem reasonable or even noble. Taken together, over time, they produce a form of absence from your own life that is felt, vaguely but persistently, as exhaustion or as emptiness.

Where does this tendency come from? From a few well-documented places.

The first is childhood. Children who grew up in environments where the parent's peace, approval, or love depended on the child's behaviour, on how well-behaved they were, how little they disturbed, how much they met expectations, internalised the conclusion that their own worth is conditional on maintaining others' comfort. This is not a conscious rule. It is a reflex formed early and kept late.

The second is the fear of conflict or rejection. To say what you truly think, to refuse, or to express a need means risking the other's disagreement, disappointment, or withdrawal of affection. And if these reactions were painful in the past, the mind preventively chooses to avoid the risk.

The third is the confusion between care and self-abandonment. Many people believe that being caring towards others means putting themselves in second place. That expressing your needs is selfish. That refusing is a lack of love. This is a false equation, but one deeply internalised.

How do you recognise that you are abandoning yourself? A few signs.

You feel resentful towards people for whom you have sacrificed, even if they did not explicitly ask for the sacrifice. Resentment is often the sign that you gave without truly wanting to give.

You feel exhausted by relationships that, on paper, seem good. If the exhaustion comes from always being the one who adapts, this is a signal.

You no longer know clearly what you want, independently of what others want or need. When your own will has been systematically ignored, it ends up having no recognisable voice.

How do you stop self-abandonment? Not through a sudden transformation or a declaration of independence. But through small and deliberate steps that require more courage than they appear to.

The first is to notice moments of choice. Before giving an automatic response, to pause and ask: what do I truly want? Not what is polite, not what avoids conflict, not what is expected. What do I want.

The second is to learn to tolerate others' discomfort. When you say no or express a need of your own, the other person may be disappointed. This does not mean you were wrong. It means you chose differently than usual. Their discomfort is theirs, not your responsibility to eliminate at any cost.

The third is to treat your own needs as valid information, not as demands. You do not need elaborate justifications for wanting what you want or not wanting what you do not want.

In relationships, stopping self-abandonment produces a paradoxical shift: relationships become more real, not colder. When you are genuinely present, with everything you are, not with the adapted and domesticated version, the other person has someone real to meet. Genuine intimacy is only possible between two present people, not between one present person and the adapted shadow of the other.

Think of a context in your life in which you systematically abandon yourself to maintain someone else's comfort. What would you truly lose if you chose differently? And what might you gain?