I've always been a story-collector
I crave resilience stories but learned empathy needs boundaries
I’m in a café, the sort where the coffee maker is familiar with my order.
I stand in the corner holding a warm cup of coffee, watching people passing by.
Each conversation seems like a complicated choreography.
‘I’m attracted to their narratives.
I’ve always been a story-collector.
Stories of toughness, of survival.
They speak to me.
They evoke my own childhood — of emotional roller coasters and the unending demand for validation. I used to feel like maybe if I could fix other people’s problems, I could make sense of mine.
I met Emily one night. She sat down next to me at a table, watching with a combination of gloom and optimism. I could smell it. The weight of her tale slammed into her shoulders. I needed to contact her — to bring her into my empathy and sympathy.
“Hey,” I interrupted to try and initiate contact. “You look like you’ve got a story.”
She looked up with a start.
“I guess I do.”
We started talking. I heard about her pains — divorce, abandonment, wounding pain. I felt the rush of kinship. I would suck it up for her — to give her the strength to survive.
But as I crouched down, I saw the tension in her muscles. How she backed up in her seat, as if my words were insufficient. I knew I was crossing a line.
“Excuse me,” I thought to myself. “Just… sorry. I don’t know, I’m interested in your life.”
She grinned. “Oh, it’s fine. I get it. But every once in a while, I just have to work things out for myself.”
That hit me very badly. I was under the impression that support meant taking myself into people’s suffering. Perhaps there was more, though — respecting their limits. I was ashamed.
Had I been pushing it?
Did I want to save her to save myself?
Come back a few weeks later.
I’m in another café, but now I pay attention to my interactions. I meet Tom, and he’s struggling too.
We have a moment, and I’d like to dig in. But I’m modest.
“I’m happy to hear,” I respond instead. It’s an incremental change, but one that feels giant. I’m teaching myself respect, too.
Tom opens up, but at his own pace.
We laugh, we share, but I watch out. I don’t want to cure him; I just want to hear. I feel lighter.
And I begin to see what I need. That guilt I once experienced because I put myself first is still there, but I resist: “I won’t save them all,” I remark to myself, “nor should I.”
A month later, I attend a boundaries workshop. The guide introduces self-love, saying no. It resonates deeply. I know that I was raised in a family where people came first. There was never a moment when their interests overrode mine. I was the jigsaw puzzler, the keeper.
“Gates aren’t walls,” the facilitator explains. “You decide who and when to open the gates.”
I listen to it, absorb the lessons. I think of Emily, of Tom. I consider myself.
I confront myself that evening. “Nothing wrong with saying no,” I mumble. “It’s okay to be my savior.”
Weeks pass.
I practice my new ability. I tell friends and family why I want it that way: “I can’t now,” I say to my mom when she needs help with a project. It feels liberating.
I love telling my own stories, too. I begin to write again — about my moments, my pains, my triumphs. It’s cathartic. Empathy, I find, isn’t losing myself — it’s about finding balance.
Emily returns to the café one afternoon, and I see her again.
We chat, and this time it’s easy. I’ve learned to listen without intervention. I ask her about her experience, and she shares openly.
“You’re lighter now,” she tells me with a grin.
“I might just finally be able to behave within our confines,” I reply, giggling.
We laugh, and in that moment, I can feel the connection. Not the suffocating kind, but the breathing kind.
Ultimately, I realize it is a two-way street.
It’s about sharing the road without weaving into another driver’s lane. It’s being available to someone while also being strong in myself.
I’m still a story collector, but I’m aware now of how critical the space is.
And that’s where meaningful connection lies, I think.
Boundaries are so important, and very easily crossed, even with the best of intentions. Thanks for sharing, Matt.