In this episode:
In this episode, I open up about breaking the cycle of people-pleasing, learning to trust discomfort as a boundary, and why I’ll never force my daughter to smile, hug, or perform for anyone. If you’ve ever silenced your inner “no” to keep the peace, this one’s for you.
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Transcript:
Hey everyone, welcome back to Bottomless to Sober. For today’s episode, I want to talk about something I’ve been sitting with for a little bit of time now—as a mom, as a woman who grew up being told to perform for the sake of making other people comfortable, and also as someone in recovery.
Basically, I want to talk about the idea of not owing people our smile. And I know that sounds kind of random, but hear me out.
So, you probably know by now that I have a six-month-old daughter named Amara. And when I look at her, I see someone who feels deeply. Her full-body giggles light up a room—but only when she wants to. She is not generous with her smile, and she’s definitely not generous with her bubbly social energy. She keeps that for people like me or others she’s really close to.
And honestly, I’m okay with that. That’s exactly how I want it. I have no problems with her not being a big smiley baby to random strangers. In fact, it goes deeper than that for me.
I remember what it was like to be told to smile when I didn’t want to. I remember what it felt like to have my face, or my body, or my energy treated like it existed just to make other people feel better.
I grew up in New York—specifically Brooklyn—and by high school, I was commuting into Manhattan, taking the subway between boroughs. And if you’re a young teen girl in NYC, or honestly just a woman in general, you probably know where this is going.
I remember strange men telling me to smile. “Why are you looking so mean?” or “You’d be prettier if you smiled.” Like—first of all—I wasn’t even thinking. That was just my resting face. But they made me feel so uncomfortable, so unsafe. And I knew that if I challenged them, it could escalate. We all know from social media just how chaotic and unsafe the subway can be. So imagine being a teenager, hearing that kind of talk from grown men. It felt threatening, and I didn’t feel like I had the option to say anything back.
And it wasn’t just strangers on the subway. At home, I had family members who insisted on hugs, kisses, conversations that I didn’t feel like giving. And when I resisted, I was told I was being rude or too sensitive. Back then, I didn’t even have the language to say the word “boundary”—but that’s what I was trying to set.
Early on, I learned that compliance was praised. Resistance—even quiet resistance—was shamed. So I learned to smile when I didn’t want to. I stayed in rooms when I wanted to leave. I quieted that voice inside that said, “Something is off.”
There’s one moment that stands out. I was a teenager, and a male family member I hadn’t seen in years visited. He looked me up and down and said in Spanish, “Damn, you got fat.” Right in front of my parents. Then he actually asked me how much I weighed. A grown man, asking a teenage girl that question—and he really expected an answer. What hurt even more? No one stepped in. Not my parents, not the other adults. I felt hot with shame. My body felt like public property—something to be measured and commented on.
There were no boundaries. And no one helped create them for me either.
That kind of disconnection followed me into adulthood. And definitely into my drinking years. Because when you’re trained to ignore your discomfort, you lose the ability to trust your gut. You end up laughing when you’re uneasy. Staying quiet when you want to scream. You stay in jobs, relationships, conversations that drain you—because asserting your needs feels dangerous.
For years, I drank to silence the internal no I didn’t feel safe saying out loud. I didn’t want to rock the boat.
But sobriety has taught me something powerful: discomfort is not something to be ashamed of. Discomfort is often our body’s first signal that something isn’t right. It’s our body trying to protect us.
So yeah, setting boundaries is uncomfortable. Especially when it’s with someone I love, and I see the disappointment on their face. But it has been some of the most necessary healing work I’ve ever done.
Now I have a baby. And I get to break the cycle.
When I look at Amara, I don’t just see my daughter—I see a chance to do things differently.
Now, this next part might sound funny because I’m usually not into astrology, energy types, or human design. Normally, I scroll right past that stuff. But I did my own human design chart recently, and surprisingly, it actually made a lot of sense for me. So I decided to do Amara’s too.
According to her chart, she’s a “manifester,” which means she’s here to initiate—not follow. Her energy comes in bursts, and peace is sacred for her. One piece of advice I read was that when I see her experiencing frustration or going quiet, I should slow down and pay attention—because those are her signals.
Reading that really resonated. It reminded me of how important it is not to shape her into someone who’s convenient for the world. I want her to trust her inner voice before the world teaches her to ignore it.
So no, I’m not going to tell her to smile at strangers. I’ll find it incredibly charming that she’s serious. I won’t force her to hug people just because they’re family—honestly, I won’t hug them either. If she wants space, she’ll get it. If she feels uneasy, I’ll listen instead of dismissing her.
And when she does offer joy, I’m going to savor it. Because that means it came from her choice—not from being told to perform. And that’s a gift.
Amara’s not here to please. Yes, she pleases me, and yes, she entertains me—because she’s hilarious—but that’s not her job. Her job is to just be. Fully. Emotionally. And as her intuition grows, my job is to protect that.
There’s a quote I love by therapist and author Nedra Glover Tawwab. She says:
“It’s okay for a small child to set limits—like not eating meat or feeling uncomfortable around certain people. Parents who respect those boundaries make space for their children to feel safe and loved. When parents ignore those preferences, children feel lonely and like their needs don’t matter—and they’ll likely struggle with their boundaries as adults.”
And yeah, I know that struggle intimately. But just because that was my struggle doesn’t mean it has to be Amara’s. At the end of the day, the world can earn her smile. I’m not going to make her give it away.
Before I wrap up, I want to leave you with a few scenarios. Just some food for thought:
1. A Stranger on the Street
Imagine heading into work and someone calls out, “Smile!”—just like those men used to do to me. If you’re part of a marginalized group—whether you’re a woman, a person of color, queer—talking back isn’t always safe. Choosing silence is not a failure. It can be survival.
Ask yourself: How do I wish I could respond in a world where safety wasn’t an issue? Or How do I usually respond, and how do I feel afterward? Can you set a quiet boundary just for yourself?
2. Uncomfortable Family Comments
Let’s say someone makes a loud, unsolicited comment about your body or your life at a family gathering. What would it take for you to say, “That’s not okay with me”?
What systems—cultural, generational, emotional—make that difficult? And how can you protect yourself with compassion, even if you can’t speak up?
3. A Child Being Asked to Hug Someone
You’re with a child you love—maybe your own, maybe a niece or nephew—and someone says, “Come give me a hug,” but the child says no. You might feel pressure to encourage it, but pause.
Ask: What message are we sending the child if we override their choice?
What message do they receive if we say, “That’s okay—you don’t have to”?
How can we honor consent, even when it disrupts what we were taught?
Just some things to sit with. And remember:
Whatever your boundaries are, they don’t make you difficult.
Whatever discomfort you’re feeling—it’s not a flaw. It’s a signal.
You don’t have to perform for anyone.
So I’ll leave you with this question:
What part of you is still performing—to stay safe, or to create safety for yourself? And what would it feel like to stop—just for a moment—and choose yourself instead?
Alright, y’all. Thanks for being here with me today. If this resonated, share it with someone or leave a positive review. I’ll catch you next time.
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