There is something that has been sitting heavily on my heart lately.
Ever since I was a little girl, I have been sensitive. Not simply emotionally sensitive, but sensitive to people—their behaviors, their words, their habits, their patterns, and even the things they didn't say.
Long before I had the education, experience, or language to understand what I was observing, I noticed when something felt off. I noticed tension. I noticed contradictions. I noticed when someone's words didn't match their behavior. I noticed patterns in families and relationships that people themselves sometimes seemed unable—or unwilling—to see.
Today, I understand that sensitivity differently. I believe it is part of how God made me, and over the years it has become an important part of the work I do.
But there is another side to being able to see patterns.
Sometimes, it hurts.
It is painful to watch people live with dysfunction in their relationships, their families, and within themselves—not because they are imperfect. We are all imperfect. We all have blind spots. We all have behaviors that need examining.
What saddens me is when we become aware of something and still refuse to become curious about it.
When did we stop asking ourselves hard questions?
When did accountability become an attack?
When did discomfort become something we believe we should never have to tolerate?
When did cutting someone off become easier than learning how to communicate?
I see families enable destructive behaviors because setting a boundary might create conflict. I see parents afraid to challenge their adult children. I see adult children ghost parents rather than have difficult conversations. I see people demanding to be understood while showing very little curiosity about how their own behavior affects others.
And this isn't about one generation. Dysfunction has existed in every generation.
But I do wonder whether some of the virtues and relational skills we once considered necessary are slowly disappearing.
Patience.
Humility.
Respect.
Accountability.
Self-restraint.
The ability to tolerate disagreement without immediately labeling someone an enemy.
The willingness to repair.
The courage to say, "Maybe I have something to learn here."
We live in a time when technology has given us extraordinary access to one another, yet access is not the same thing as connection.
We can block, unfollow, delete, mute, ghost, and replace people with the movement of a finger.
Sometimes separation is absolutely necessary. Some relationships are destructive, abusive, or chronically unsafe, and wisdom may require distance.
But not every uncomfortable relationship is unsafe.
Not every disagreement is toxic.
Not every correction is criticism.
And not every difficult emotion is evidence that someone else has done something wrong.
Healthy relationships require skills.
They require the ability to regulate ourselves enough to stay present during uncomfortable conversations. They require discernment. They require boundaries without cruelty, honesty without humiliation, and compassion without enabling.
Most importantly, they require a willingness to examine ourselves.
That may be the piece I find myself grieving.
Not that human beings struggle.
We always have.
Not that families are imperfect.
They always will be.
What saddens me is the possibility that we are losing our curiosity about ourselves.
Because curiosity creates an opening.
Instead of immediately asking, What's wrong with them? we can ask, Why did that affect me so strongly?
Instead of defending ourselves automatically, we can ask, Is there something here I need to consider?
Instead of repeating the same relational pattern for another ten years, we can ask, What am I contributing to this dynamic?
And instead of saying, This is just who I am, we can have the courage to ask, Is this who I want to continue becoming?
I have had to ask myself those questions too.
Growth isn't something I teach from a distance. It has required me to confront my own patterns, reactions, beliefs, grief, pride, fear, and blind spots. Some of those realizations have been uncomfortable.
But discomfort has also been one of my greatest teachers.
I've watched what can happen when someone becomes willing to look at themselves honestly. I've watched relationships change. I've watched people develop boundaries where there were none. I've watched families begin to communicate differently. I've watched people recognize patterns they carried for decades and finally decide, "This stops with me."
That is why I still have hope.
People can change.
Relationships can become healthier.
Generational patterns can be interrupted.
Character can be strengthened.
But growth requires participation.
God can reveal. Life can teach. People can love us enough to tell us the truth. We can read every book, listen to every podcast, attend every church service, and consume endless information about emotional health.
Eventually, however, we have to be willing to look inward.
Maybe that is what has been sitting so heavily on my heart.
I'm not saddened because people are flawed.
I'm saddened when we stop believing our flaws are worth examining.
Because one of the most powerful questions a human being can still have the courage to ask is:
What needs to change in me?
And perhaps an equally important one is:
Am I still curious enough to find out?
🦋 If you're ready to become more intentional about the relationship you have with yourself and with others, reach out to me about private coaching.
Growth begins with curiosity. Change begins with what you do next.
Sandra