Why Do You Have Such a Hard Time Valuing Your Own Peace?

A therapist’s question that stopped me in my tracks

I was sitting in my therapist’s office last Tuesday, doing what I do best, explaining away another situation where I’d completely abandoned my own needs. The scenario was painfully familiar: my husband and I had agreed he’d take both kids to the rec center so I could finally tackle the work project that had been haunting my to-do list for weeks. But when the moment came, he expressed some vague concern about managing both children alone, and I did what I always do…I caved.

“Okay, just take one. I’ll figure something else out.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, that automatic response that’s been programmed into me since… well, since forever. My work deadline could wait. My sanity could wait. His comfort couldn’t.

My therapist listened patiently as I justified the decision, explaining how it was “just easier” this way, how I didn’t want to create conflict, how maybe I was being unreasonable anyway. Then she asked the question that has been echoing in my mind for days:

“Why do you have such a hard time valuing your own peace?”

I sat there, mouth slightly open, completely speechless. Because I didn’t have an answer. Not a real one, anyway.

The Art of Making Ourselves Smaller

If you’re a millennial mom reading this, I’m willing to bet you know exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve perfected the art of shrinking ourselves, our needs, our time, our dreams, to fit into the spaces left over after everyone else’s comfort is secured.

We’re the generation that was told we could have it all, be it all, do it all. But somehow, in the pursuit of being everything to everyone, we forgot to be anything to ourselves. We learned to measure our worth by how smoothly we could make everyone else’s life run, how little friction we created, how effortlessly we could disappear our own inconvenience.

When the babysitter cancels last minute, we’re the ones scrambling to find coverage or skipping our plans entirely. When our partner has a work emergency, we’re already mentally rearranging our schedule before they even ask. When our kids need something—anything—we drop everything, no questions asked.

And don’t get me wrong, there’s beauty in caring deeply for our families. The problem isn’t that we love them; it’s that we’ve somehow convinced ourselves that loving them means loving ourselves less.

The Invisible Weight We Carry

Here’s what I’ve realized in the days since that therapy session: every time I make myself smaller for someone else’s comfort, I’m not just giving up that moment. I’m reinforcing a pattern that tells me *and everyone around me* that my peace, my time, my needs are negotiable in a way that theirs aren’t.

It’s death by a thousand paper cuts. Each individual compromise feels manageable, even noble. But collectively? They add up to a life where I’m constantly running on empty, where my own peace feels like a luxury I can’t afford rather than a necessity I deserve.

We carry this invisible weight of always being “on”, the mental load of remembering everyone’s schedules, the emotional labor of managing family dynamics, the physical exhaustion of trying to keep all the plates spinning. And when someone else’s plate wobbles, we instinctively steady it, even if it means dropping our own.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

I’ve been digging into why this pattern feels so automatic, so natural, so right even when it leaves me feeling depleted. The stories we tell ourselves run deep:

“I’m just better at handling chaos.” “It’s not worth the fight.” “They need me more than I need this.” “I can make it work somehow.” “This is what good mothers do.”

These narratives feel protective, they help us avoid conflict, maintain harmony, and feel needed. But they’re also incredibly limiting. They cast us as the perpetual accommodator, the one who can always bend a little more, stretch a little further, sacrifice a little deeper.

What if instead of asking ourselves how we can make it work for everyone else, we started asking: what would it look like to make it work for me too?

Permission to Value Your Own Peace

That question my therapist asked wasn’t just about one afternoon at the rec center. It was about a fundamental shift in how I view my own worthiness of peace, rest, and prioritization.

Here’s what I’m learning: valuing your own peace isn’t selfish, it’s important. You can’t pour from an empty cup, but more than that, you shouldn’t have to. Your peace matters not because of what it allows you to give to others, but because you matter. Full stop.

This doesn’t mean becoming inflexible or uncaring. It means recognizing that your needs deserve the same consideration you automatically give to everyone else’s. It means understanding that creating boundaries isn’t about building walls, it’s about building a sustainable way to show up authentically in your relationships.

Small Shifts, Big Changes

I’m still working on this. I don’t have it figured out, and I still catch myself mid-cave sometimes. But I’m getting more curious about those moments instead of just accepting them as inevitable.

Now when I feel that familiar urge to immediately accommodate, I’m trying to pause and ask myself: What would happen if I didn’t bend here? What would it cost me to maintain my boundary? What would it cost me not to?

Sometimes the answer is still that flexibility makes sense. But increasingly, I’m discovering that the sky doesn’t fall when I say, “Actually, we agreed on this plan, and I really need it to work as discussed.”

I’m learning to recognize the difference between being helpful and being a pushover. Between being considerate and being invisible. Between being loving and being disposable.

The Ripple Effects

Here’s something beautiful that’s starting to happen: as I get better at valuing my own peace, I’m modeling something different for my children. Instead of showing them that mothers are infinitely bendable, I’m showing them that everyone’s needs matter, including mine.

My sons are watching me navigate this balance, learning that he doesn’t have to shrink himself to be lovable. My son is seeing that the women in his life are whole people with their own needs and boundaries, not just support systems for everyone else’s dreams.

And my husband? He’s rising to meet the occasion more often than I expected. It turns out that when I stopped automatically volunteering to carry the heavier load, he didn’t resent it, he stepped up. Who knew?

Your Peace Is Not Negotiable

To my fellow millennial moms who are reading this while hiding in your car in the Target parking lot, eating lunch standing up in the kitchen, or staying up too late because it’s the only quiet time you get: your peace is not a luxury. It’s not something you earn by being good enough, patient enough, or selfless enough.

Your peace is not negotiable. It’s not the thing you trade away to keep everyone else comfortable. It’s the foundation from which you can love others sustainably, authentically, and joyfully.

So the next time you feel yourself getting ready to cave, to accommodate, to make yourself smaller, remember that therapist’s question: Why do you have such a hard time valuing your own peace?

Then maybe, just maybe, choose differently.

Because you deserve to take up space in your own life. You deserve to have needs that matter. And you deserve to experience the radical act of choosing yourself, not instead of your family, but alongside them.

Your peace matters. And so do you.

The Balanced Mom