"I don’t know how to morph into what he needs. I was always taught to be strong, fiercely self-reliant. The thought of letting someone else steer the ship, even occasionally, makes my palms sweat."
"Why?"
The question was simple, yet it sliced through my defenses like a ninja. "Because what if he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth?" I searched around for a metaphor. “Like a high-maintenance plant.”
Dr. Reeves leaned in with a wise nod. "Emily, when you were with Dion, did you feel like a high-maintenance plant?"
I pondered, my inner honesty meter ticking away. "No," I confessed. "I felt... like a rare flower."
"Then maybe the real question isn't whether you're too much, but whether you're ready to trust that you're just the right amount." She let me ponder that. “Has Dion tried to change who you are?”
I shook my head miserably. He’d told me he’d get rid of the changing table. Would never make me use pacifiers.
"Never," I said, the memory making my chest ache. "He kept telling me he wanted me exactly as I am. Even said he'd throw out anything in his playroom that made me uncomfortable."
"And yet you're sitting here convinced you need to become someone else for him?"
The contradiction hit me like a slap. "I... yes. I guess I am."
"Emily, what if the problem isn't that you're not enough, but that you're so afraid of being vulnerable that you're sabotaging your own happiness?"
I stared at her, the words settling into my chest like stones. "You think I'm self-sabotaging?" Even if I guessed, it seemed more real when she said it.
"I think you're terrified of being abandoned, so you're abandoning first." Her voice was gentle but direct. "Tell me about your childhood. What happened when you showed vulnerability?"
The question opened a floodgate. I told her about my mother's criticism, my father's emotional distance, the constant message that needing comfort was weakness. How I'd learned to bury my softer side so deep I'd almost forgotten it existed.
"Until Dion," Dr. Reeves observed.
"Until Dion," I agreed. "He made it safe to be... smaller sometimes. To let someone else carry the weight."
"And that terrified you."
"Yes." The admission came out as a whisper.
We talked for another thirty minutes about trauma responses, attachment styles, and the difference between healthy dependency and codependency. By the time I left, I felt raw but clearer.
That evening, I called Abby.
"Emily!" Her voice was bright with genuine pleasure. "How are you? Daddy said you were okay, but we've been worried."
"I'm... figuring things out," I said honestly. "Abby, I need help. Walker mentioned an open Little night at Salvation, and I need to be there. But I also need to be honest about who I am, not pretend to be something I'm not."
"Of course!" Abby's enthusiasm was infectious. "We don't have to use the sparkly laces even if you do need to wear sneakers."
Which in typical Abby fashion made a ton of sense. "I need to understand what my dynamic actually is. Not what I think it should be, or what I'm afraid it might be. What it really is."
There was a pause, then Abby's voice came back warmer. "Want to come over? Clare's here too, and we can talk about it properly."
An hour later, I sat in Gideon and Abby's living room, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of their life together. Poppy, their golden retriever, had tried to claim my lap, her warm weight soothing my nerves.
"So," Clare said, curling up in an armchair with a cup of tea, "tell us what feels right to you. Not what you think should feel right—what actually does."
I thought about my time with Dion, sorting through memories like photographs. "I love when he takes care of me," I said slowly. "When he feeds me, or bathes me, brushes my hair, or makes decisions when I'm overwhelmed. But I don't want to be treated like a young child. I like feeling grownup most of the time."
"Why are you worried that Dion wouldn’t like that?” Clare asked.
“Because he made decisions without involving me,” I said. “He decided what was best.”
