I have spent a lot of my life just trying to “fit.” And trying to make sure there was a seat for me.
In friendships.
In relationships.
Families.
Conversations.
People’s priorities.
People’s lives.
Sometimes – many times, in fact – I’ve tried to earn the seat by being useful. Sometimes by being agreeable. Sometimes by being funny. Helpful. Available. Understanding. Forgiving. Easy. Sometimes I’ve fought for the seat by explaining myself over and over, hoping that if I could just find the right words, someone would finally understand me. Sometimes I’ve competed for it. Chased it. Sometimes I’ve accepted crumbs because at least crumbs meant I hadn’t been completely excluded from the table. And sometimes I have worked incredibly hard to keep a seat that nobody actually offered me in the first place.
I am so tired of doing those things.
I will not fight for my seat anymore.
If I have to convince someone that I belong, I probably don’t. My instinct, historically, has been to try harder. If someone pulls away, move closer. If someone misunderstands me, explain more. If someone doubts me, prove myself. If someone doesn’t see my value, demonstrate it. If someone seems capable of living without me, find a way to become indispensable.
There is an exhausting amount of work involved in trying to convince someone that I deserve a place in their life. And I’m learning that genuine belonging doesn’t require campaigning. People who want me around generally make room. Not perfectly. Not constantly. I know life gets busy. Relationships go through seasons. People have responsibilities and problems that have absolutely nothing to do with me.
I don’t need constant reassurance. But there is a difference between a relationship “going through a quiet season” and a relationship that requires constant proof that I deserve to exist. And I am learning to recognize it.
I don’t want to compete for affection. I don’t want to wonder whether I’m interesting enough. Useful enough. Pretty enough. Successful enough. Easy enough. Fun enough. Agreeable enough. Needed enough.
I don’t want relationships where someone else’s presence makes me feel as though my position is suddenly threatened. I don’t want to compete with another friend or family member or priority…or even another version of myself that someone liked more. Love isn’t supposed to feel like musical chairs, and I don’t want to spend my life circling the room terrified that the music will stop and I’ll discover that there isn’t a place for me.
I don’t want to audition, either. I have spent a year learning how to present authentically, and I don’t want to revert back to performing for belonging. I don’t want to have to carefully edit myself into whatever version seems least likely to be rejected. I don’t want to outwardly agree when I inwardly disagree. I don’t want to laugh off things that hurt. I don’t want to stay silent just because the truth might make someone uncomfortable. I don’t want to feel obligated to say yes for fear of disappointing someone. I don’t want to hide parts of myself because I’m afraid they won’t be accepted…or constantly monitor someone’s mood to determine which version of me is safest to enter the room. I want relationships where I can continue growing without constantly auditioning for approval. Belonging should not require a recurring performance review.
None of this means that I am willing to walk away from anything that is hard. I think our culture overcorrects in that regard.
“If they wanted to, they would.”
“Never chase anyone.”
“Match their energy.”
“Cut them off.”
Those phrases sound empowering. And sometimes they’re even useful. But relationships between actual human being are more complicated than captioned Instagram graphics.
People get hurt. They withdraw. They misunderstand each other. They go through depression, grief, illness, stress, parenthood, work problems, and seasons when they don’t have much to give.
Sometimes love does require effort. Sometimes I should initiate. Sometimes I should apologize. Sometimes I should call again. Sometimes I should humble myself and admit that I contributed to separation.
“I won’t fight for my seat” should never become pride disguised as self-respect. That’s not what I mean. And there are relationships I have fought for. By communicating, listening, apologizing, forgiving. By changing behavior, having uncomfortable conversations, showing up, being patient, giving someone room.
I will fight…for people.
But I don’t think it is wise to fight against people for permission to matter to them.
Jesus loved people, but He didn’t change the truth to keep the crowd. He doesn’t force us to follow Him. He doesn’t measure His identity by unanimous approval.
And I want to learn something from that.
Love generously.
Leave the door open when appropriate.
And recognize that I am not responsible for forcing someone through it.
I have fought…for my marriage. For healthy relationships.
I have fought against unhealthy patterns. To become someone who is safe to love.
But I will not fight another person for permission to take up space in their lives.
I won’t compete.
I won’t perform.
I won’t make myself indispensable so someone doesn’t leave.
I won’t buy belonging with favors.
I won’t abandon my values to remain included.
I won’t spend my life trying to convince someone that I am worthy of a chair they clearly don’t want to pull out for me.
And if someone chooses not to make room?
I can grieve that.
I can miss them.
I can wish things were different.
I can even leave room in my heart for circumstances to change someday.
But I don’t have to eat the crumbs. I don’t have to stand behind the table begging. I am not a dog.
And maybe one of the most important things I have learned is that I don’t need to fight for every seat. Instead, I need to take good care of the ones that I’ve actually been given. And instead of overlooking the people who have quietly stayed all along, I need to recognize – more readily – the very few people who haven’t asked me to prove anything. Those who said, “Sit down. We saved you a place.”
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