Emotional Fort Knox: How I Mastered the Art of Pushing People Away (And Finally Stopped)

A Cautionary Tale of Independence Gone Rogue, Passive-Aggressive Marriage Olympics, and the Shocking Discovery That People Aren’t Psychic

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How to Stop Being a One-Person Wolf Pack)

I’ve never been afraid of being alone in the sense of needing constant company. I enjoy my alone time, my personal space, and the peace that comes with solitude (because let’s be honest, people can be exhausting). But what I have feared, deeply and for as long as I can remember, is living the remainder of my life alone—like some tragic, emotionally-withdrawn hermit with a collection of unread self-help books and an unnecessarily large supply of scented candles.

This fear stems from a childhood where I felt emotionally alone, unable to let people in or even understand how to form those crucial connections that make life full and rich. Thankfully, my husband took that as a challenge—and gladly accepted, like some sort of emotional escape-room champion. Otherwise, I would still be alone, talking to my plants for validation and aggressively side-eyeing couples in coffee shops.

Now, you may be thinking, “Well, you aren’t alone. You found your person.” And while that’s true, the journey to connection wasn’t exactly a rom-com montage set to upbeat indie music. Let me take you back and explain.

The Walls I Built (No, Not Metaphorical Castles, but Close)

For the first fifteen years of our twenty-year relationship, I was closed off, fiercely independent, and determined to handle everything on my own. If something needed doing, I did it. Household repairs? I turned into a half-baked version of Bob the Builder (minus the proper tools and, let’s be honest, the skills). Emotional struggles? I therapized myself (results were... questionable at best). Parenting responsibilities? Full-on CEO of Kid Management with no board of directors.

And, surprise surprise, this led to resentment. I expected my husband to just know when I needed help—like some psychic handyman/life coach hybrid. But he saw someone who was nailing life like a pro (or at least pretending to). We weren’t working as a team; we were two individuals competing in a very passive-aggressive Olympic sport called "Marriage Without Communication." And the problem? It was me.

I was so used to being alone that I didn’t communicate my needs. Instead of pulling my husband in, I was unknowingly pushing him away with a "No, I got this" force field of independence so strong it could deflect emotional intimacy like a NASA-grade heat shield.

Facing the Fear (And My Own Stubbornness)

Even now, I sometimes fear that I will screw it all up—that he will finally say "You know what? This was a fun challenge, but I’m out." But if that were the case, wouldn't he have tapped out already? He has stuck around for twenty years, fifteen of which were me throwing every emotional obstacle in his path. If that’s not dedication (or sheer stubbornness on his part), I don’t know what is.

For a long time, I thought having children would fill that void of loneliness. Spoiler alert: they don’t. Kids are great, but they eventually grow up, realize you’re not actually a superhero, and build their own lives. If you’re trying to use them as a permanent emotional security blanket, prepare for some disappointment (and possibly some very awkward therapy sessions later).

Healing the Wound (Because Apparently, That’s a Thing We Should Do)

So why was I afraid of being alone? Well, according to my therapist (who is vastly more rational than I am), it’s what we call childhood trauma. Fun, right?

As a kid, I was different. I had young parents who had no clue what to do with me, so I was passed around like a confusing game of emotional hot potato. I was constantly met with “You’re too much,” “You’re too loud,” and my personal favorite, “Why can’t you just be normal?” Turns out, when people tell you that enough, you start to believe it. And that belief? It builds some impenetrable walls.

Even now, my relationship with my parents is more of a contractual obligation—holidays, major life events, and the occasional “I saw this thing on Facebook, thought of you” text. It’s not warm and fuzzy, but it’s a boundary I maintain for my own sanity.

For years, I kept people at a distance to avoid being hurt. Brilliant strategy, right? Except that in doing so, I was actively creating the very loneliness I feared. Genius-level self-sabotage.

Choosing Connection (Or, How to Not Be a Social Disaster)

Acknowledging these patterns has changed everything. I no longer let my fear of being alone steer the ship. Instead of building walls, I’m fostering actual, real-life human connections. I communicate my needs to my husband (shocking concept, I know). I let my children in emotionally (without emotionally clinging to them like a desperate octopus). I create an environment of love rather than distance.

I found my person, and despite my flaws, despite the years I made it as difficult as humanly possible, he still chooses me. Every. Single. Day. And honestly? That’s kind of incredible.

If you fear being alone, take a long, hard look at how you might be accidentally self-sabotaging. Are you pushing people away while simultaneously wondering why you feel disconnected? Are you clinging to old wounds like they’re some kind of identity badge? Healing starts with you. And when you do the work, the relationships you build will be stronger, deeper, and filled with the love you actually deserve.

Now, go forth and dismantle your emotional fortresses. Or at the very least, start using the door instead of reinforcing the walls. Because let’s be real—nobody wants to be the emotional cryptkeeper of their own life.