How the Relationship with Your Mother Shapes the Boundaries You Set at Work

It is late in the afternoon when the group settles back into the circle. The atmosphere in the room feels different now. Earlier in the day there was more talking, more explaining, more thinking. Now the space has become quieter, almost tender, as if everyone has moved a little closer to something inside themselves.

In front of me sits a woman in her early forties. She joined this training because she feels constantly exhausted at work. She works hard, she is reliable, and she is known as someone who is always there when others need support. Her manager appreciates her dedication and colleagues often turn to her when things become difficult. Yet despite all that appreciation she goes home most days feeling strangely empty.

Earlier today something about her had already caught my attention.

Whenever someone in the group needed something, even before they finished asking, her eyes would lift immediately. It was as if her body was already prepared to respond.

“You spend a lot of energy taking care of others,” I say.

She nods without hesitation.

“Yes,” she answers, “that sounds familiar.”

“And how is it with taking care of yourself?” I ask.

A small smile appears on her face, the kind of smile people sometimes give when they recognize something uncomfortable.

“I’m not very good at that,” she admits.

I ask her how this shows up in her work life.

“If someone asks me to do something, I almost always say yes,” she explains. “Even when I already know that I won’t have the time. And when I do say no, I feel guilty almost immediately.”

“Guilty towards whom?” I ask.

She shrugs lightly.

“I’m not even sure,” she says.

For a moment we allow the silence to remain between us.

“Do you remember when you first learned that you had to take care of others?” I ask after a while.

Her gaze drops to the floor as she begins to think.

“My mother was often sad when I was little,” she says quietly. “She had a very difficult time after my parents divorced.”

She tells me that her mother was frequently tired, withdrawn, or overwhelmed by sadness.

“And then I would sit next to her,” she continues. “I made tea for her, or tried to make her laugh.”

“How old were you then?” I ask.

“About eight.”

As she speaks I notice something subtle in her body. She leans slightly forward, almost imperceptibly, as though some part of her is still reaching toward her mother.

“Who took care of you in those moments?” I ask.

She looks up at me, surprised by the question.

“I’ve never really thought about that before.”

“You were a child who was taking care of her mother,” I say gently. “A child who felt it was necessary to become strong.”

She nods slowly.

“And if you hadn’t taken care of her, what would have happened?” I ask.

She pauses for a moment.

“I think I would have felt guilty.”

The room grows quieter again.

“So somewhere along the way you learned that love means taking care of the other person,” I say.

She nods.

“And that your own needs should wait.”

I see her eyes fill with tears.

“I still do that,” she says softly. “At work as well.”

“Exactly.”

I invite her to sit quietly for a moment and bring her attention to her feet on the ground.

“Just notice what it feels like to sit here,” I tell her, “without having to do anything for anyone else.”

Her breathing deepens slightly.

“It feels strange,” she says after a while. “Almost as if I’m forgetting something.”

“Perhaps you have been forgetting someone for a long time,” I say softly.

She looks at me with curiosity.

“Yourself.”

The group has grown completely still.

I ask another participant to sit across from her.

“This will represent your mother,” I explain.

She looks at the woman sitting opposite her. Her breathing becomes a little faster.

“You don’t need to do anything,” I reassure her. “Just look.”

After a few moments I see something change in her face. The tension softens.

“What would you like to say to her?” I ask.

She swallows before answering.

“That I really tried my best.”

Tears begin to run down her cheeks.

“And that you were still a child,” I add quietly.

She nods.

We allow the moment to unfold without rushing it.

After a while I invite her to take a small step back.

“Notice how it feels when you allow yourself to stand here again as the daughter,” I say.

She inhales deeply.

“It feels lighter,” she whispers.

Later that afternoon I ask her how it was to look at her mother in this way.

“It feels like I can give something back to her that was never really mine,” she says.

“And what might that mean for your work?” I ask.

A gentle smile appears on her face.

“Maybe I don’t have to take care of everyone anymore.”

The role you once learned

The way we relate to colleagues, managers, and teams is often deeply connected to the roles we learned in our families.

As children we sometimes step into positions that were never truly ours. We begin to soothe, carry, protect, or stabilize the emotional world around us.

Not because anyone explicitly asked us to do so, but because the system quietly needed someone to hold it together.

In systemic work this dynamic is often described as parentification.

The child becomes big for the parent.

And when that happens, the natural order within the family system shifts.

The body remembers what the system needed

This dynamic does not only live in our memories or thoughts.

It lives in the body.

A child who constantly senses the emotional state of a parent develops a nervous system that is always scanning.

Is my mother okay?
Does she need something from me?
Should I help?

Over time the body learns to orient outward, toward the needs of others, rather than inward toward itself.

Breathing becomes slightly shallower.
The shoulders remain subtly tense.
Attention moves outward.

The nervous system stays in a quiet state of alertness.

Through this process the vagus nerve, which plays a central role in regulating safety and connection, begins to associate connection with taking care of others.

Connection does not feel like resting in oneself.

Connection feels like responsibility.

Years later, on the workplace floor, the same pattern can easily repeat itself.

A colleague asks for help.
A manager needs support.
The emotional climate of the team shifts.

The body responds automatically.

Saying yes feels safe.
Setting boundaries feels uncomfortable, even threatening.

Not because it actually is dangerous.

But because the nervous system once learned that belonging depended on taking care of others.

When the body learns a different experience

In body oriented work we therefore begin not only with understanding but with the body itself.

With slowing down.

With breath.

With allowing the nervous system to experience moments of safety.

As someone gradually learns to feel their own body again, the nervous system begins to soften.

The breath deepens.
The shoulders relax.
The gaze becomes calmer.

Through the regulation of the vagus nerve a sense of safety slowly emerges.

And from that place something new becomes possible.

The body begins to discover that connection can exist without self abandonment.

That you can remain present with yourself while being in contact with another person.

That you can say no and still remain connected.

Little by little the body begins to write a new story.

A story in which care is no longer the condition for love.

Returning to your place

Every system has an order.

Parents are the big ones.
Children are the small ones.

When a child begins to take care of a parent, this order becomes blurred.

It may look loving from the outside, yet it asks a great deal of energy from the child.

When someone returns to their own place, something inside the system begins to settle again.

The daughter can become the daughter once more.
The employee can become a colleague again.

Not the one who carries everything.

But someone who is also allowed to receive.

And in that moment something new often appears.

Space.

Space to set boundaries.
Space to show yourself.
Space to remain connected without losing yourself.

Remember yourself

Perhaps the work is not about becoming someone new.

Perhaps it is about remembering the place that was always yours.

The place where you no longer have to carry what was never meant for you.
The place where care does not mean losing yourself.
The place where you can stand in your life with both feet on the ground, breathing freely, allowing your body to soften into a different way of being.

Sometimes healing begins in the quiet moment where you realise that what once protected you no longer needs to lead your life.

And that, gently, you can begin again.

If you feel that something in this story speaks to you, and you would like to explore how your family system, your body, and your patterns shape the way you live and work today, I warmly invite you for a 1:1 coaching conversation.

A space to slow down, listen to your body, and rediscover the place that is truly yours.

You can find more information at
www.raafwerk.nl/coaching

And if this reflection resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone who might need these words today.