I Love You But I Love Me More

Before We Begin

One day you realize you’ve left yourself out of the equation.

You’ve treated yourself like that scratch sheet of paper.

The one used to work everything out…

And then quietly discarded…

For years, you may have believed this was simply your personality.

That this was just who you are.

But what if it isn’t?

What if these were roles you learned to play?

What if there has always been more to you than the roles you’ve learned to play?

Every one of us has played roles we never auditioned for.

This book isn’t about criticizing the performance.

It’s about understanding why you learned the role in the first place.

And what happens when you stop leaving yourself out of the story.

So, if you’re ready…

Places, everyone.

Chapter One

How We Learn to Leave Ourselves

“Children should be seen and not heard.”

Act I — The Lesson

Self-abandonment does not begin in adulthood.

For many of us, it began in small rooms—in kitchens, while dinner was being prepared. In living rooms where the temperature could change with a single sentence.

In classrooms, where belonging sometimes depended on saying the right thing—or saying nothing at all.

Close your eyes for a moment.

Go back.

You are a child.

The child who asks questions.
The child who feels things deeply.
The child who sometimes says “no.”

You aren’t trying to be difficult.

You are trying to understand.

You aren’t being dramatic.

You’re being honest.

You aren’t defiant.

You’re discovering that you have preferences.

Now pause.

Do you remember the first time the atmosphere in a room changed because of something you asked…or said?

For me, it was at the dinner table with my parents.

I was an only child at the time. I remember being called a good girl. I was obedient. I don’t remember a raised voice or a harsh tone.

But one evening, my parents and I sat down for dinner.

Something was different.

There wasn’t the usual, “How was school today?”

No laughter.

No conversation.

Just forks hitting plates.

Maybe because I couldn’t make sense of the silence, I drifted into my own thoughts.

Somewhere in the fog, I heard

“Joyce, I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

What the heck does that mean?

Who’s Peter? Who’s Paul? Why are Mommie and Daddy going to rob him? And more importantly, are we going to jail?

I couldn’t solve this mystery on my own.

“Who is Paul?”

The forks stopped.

Silence.

What did I say?

Did I say something wrong?

“Eat your food.”

I’d never heard my daddy use that tone with me before.

I still had questions.

I still don’t know who Peter was. I was worried about him. He was getting robbed.

I wanted someone to answer my questions.

To solve the mystery.

But another thought came to mind.

A hard head makes a soft behind.

I’d heard my grandmother tell my cousin that many times, right before a spanking.

At that moment, I had a choice.

Ask another question…

Or eat my food.

Before taking me to school, Mommie would always say, “Make good choices.”

So, I lowered my head.

I picked up my fork and took another bite.

When I cleared my plate, my questions were still sitting at the table.

My mind didn’t fully understand what just happened.

My body did.

No one had to explain the lesson.

Instinctively, I adjusted.

As children, we are wired for attachment.

We thrive when we experience a deep, secure bond with the people who care for us.

We weren’t needy.

We needed connection.

We still do.

For a child, connection isn’t just comforting.

It feels like safety.

It feels like protection.

So, when the connection feels uncertain, children don’t stop to debate fairness.

They do not analyze family dynamics.

They respond to a shift in tone.

A withdrawal of warmth.

A tightening in the room that makes the body catch its breath.

Long before a child has words to explain it, their body reaches a conclusion:

It’s safer to adjust than to risk losing the connection.

And when adjusting reduces the tension—even a little—the body remembers.

That worked.

The lesson is learned.