For some time now I’ve been practicing Gabor Maté’s method of working with people, Compassionate Inquiry, and I absolutely love it. I feel present, connected, curious, and very excited.
In the first practice group I deeply resonated with one of the women. We mirrored each other in a way that felt familiar and valuable. I saw myself in many aspects of her personal struggles.
When the groups were reorganized and we had to change partners, she remained in the same group as me. A few hours before the meeting, something happened. Instead of feeling joy, first there was a lump in my throat, then a silent anxiety, and slowly, a full-blown panic attack.
After I somewhat recovered, I joined the group. It so happened that it was just me and the woman I had connected with.
I told her what had just happened, and she immediately stepped into the role of therapist and asked if I wanted to explore where those sensations were coming from.
She shared something from her own process too, which made me reflect on my own fear of vulnerability. Or more precisely, the fear of being hurt when I am vulnerable. I even shared that in childhood, anticipating punishment for something I had done, I would punish myself first and live in terror of the moment, in my head, before it even happened. And because I was a very obedient and well-behaved child, that usually happened when I got a low grade. Meaning a 9. Or an 8. Until high school, when I was already away from home, I had never received a 7 or lower.
My colleague, in the therapist role, kept insisting that I give her a concrete memory. At first, I didn’t understand the point, since I’d already given her the example with the grades. And I couldn’t see the connection.
But suddenly, a memory surfaced. Fifth grade. My first 8, from a very strict teacher. I felt so disappointed in myself and so afraid of my parents’ reaction that I came home with swollen eyes from crying and trembling like a leaf. In our living room, I found my teacher, having coffee with my mother.
When she saw me, the teacher hugged me. Validated me. She told me I was okay just as I was. That 8 was a good grade, that middle school was harder, that every teacher had their own style and expectations, and that as long as I made an effort and tried my best, it was enough! It was okay! She even congratulated me!
I was shocked! Both by this new theory, which felt completely absurd to me, and by my mother’s smile in the background.
It was the first time someone held me in that place of “I made a mistake” without rejecting me, without blaming me, without holding me accountable for the “mistake,” without punishing me for imperfection.
That day, without knowing it, I encountered a new theory. A worldview that overturned all the rules I’d been raised with: that worth isn’t measured in grades, that I don’t have to be perfect to be accepted, that mistakes aren’t a reason for punishment but part of the learning process, a confirmation that I’m human. My teacher told me, with a warm voice and gentle gestures, that I was enough just as I was. That my effort mattered. That being seen, “found out,” didn’t automatically mean being shamed.
It was the first time someone held me in that fragile space of error and gave me validation instead of shame and punishment.
And for a few moments, I believed her.
I felt seen, understood, appreciated, light as a feather. The whole world on my shoulders disappeared for a moment.
But not for long. Because I was about to fall from that high place. After the teacher left, the smile disappeared, and I was punished.
Something got deeply imprinted in me then:
when someone gets close, it will hurt later.
when you are seen, rejection will follow.
That’s how I learned, without anyone meaning to teach me, that intimacy is unsafe.
That it’s simpler, safer, to open up to strangers.
With them it doesn’t hurt the same. And I have a higher chance of being understood, sometimes.
But today I know that mechanism is an adaptation that no longer serves me. It’s an automatic response, a protective reflex, not a truth. And today I choose to look at it with gentleness. To no longer let it lead me from the shadows. To shine a spotlight on it, thank it for its service, and invite it to the back seat.
Because now I know closeness can also be safe.
I’m still learning. I still hide in front of close friends. I still flinch.
But today, something shifted.
