Reframe 4: The Scripts They Wrote For You (And Why Breaking Them Is Harder Than Anyone Says)

I Was Born Into A Role

Not consciously. But the lines were written before I could choose.

Good girl. Helper. Fixer. The one who keeps the peace. The strong one. The one who doesn't cry. The one who takes care of everyone.

I didn't audition for these parts. I inherited them.

From my mother who never complained about anything. From my father who praised her for it. From church that taught me my body wasn't mine to take up space with. From school that rewarded me for being "no trouble." From every workplace that promoted me for being the one who "just handles it."

The stage directions came with the roles: Always be available. Always be capable. Never ask for help. Never be a burden. Never choose yourself. Never make others uncomfortable.

I spent forty years performing these lines perfectly.

And I was praised relentlessly for it.

"She's so reliable." "She never complains." "She just handles everything." "She's so strong."

What they actually meant: She disappears beautifully.

The Script Teaches You What You're Worth

The script had a clear equation:

• Work → more work → even more work

• Self-sacrifice → leadership

• Invisibility → strength

• Exhaustion → commitment

• Survival → success

I learned that my worth was directly proportional to my usefulness. That love meant accommodation. That being a "good woman" meant erasing myself.

I learned this in a thousand small moments:

When my mother stayed in a marriage that diminished her and everyone called her "strong," I learned: suffering in silence equals love.

When my boss rewarded my over-functioning with more responsibility, I learned: setting boundaries equals betrayal.

When my family orbited around whoever was most upset, I learned: crisis equals visibility and connection.

When my achievements were met with "that's nice, but when are you getting married," I learned: my ambitions don't actually matter.

When I was neurodivergent and nobody named it, and I compensated by working twice as hard, I learned: difference is something to overcome, not something to work with.

The script was everywhere. In school. In workplaces. In relationships. In how I talked to myself.

Do what you're supposed to do. Check the boxes. Smile through the weight. Don't ask questions. Don't want too much. Don't take up space.

Your job is to fit into other people's stories. Not to write your own.

When You Try To Stop Reading The Script

Here's what nobody tells you: The script doesn't just disappear because you see it.

The system is invested in you keeping reading it.

I started questioning the script in my late thirties. Started saying no sometimes. Started asking for help. Started wondering if I actually wanted what I'd been told to want.

And something shifted. Not because I was suddenly "brave" or "enlightened." But because I was exhausted. Burnt out. Running on fumes.

I made three decisions that would've been impossible with the old script:

1. I said no to a prestigious opportunity.

It was everything the script said yes to: impressive title, high visibility, proof of success. Sixty-hour weeks. Constant travel. The kind of role that requires you to perform calm while everything burns.

The old script says: You should want this. You should do this. It's an honor.

The new script—the one I was starting to write—said: This requires me to disappear completely. And I'm done.

I turned it down.

And then I waited for consequences. For being labeled ungrateful. For failing. For proving something was wrong with me for not wanting it.

Some consequences came. But not the ones I expected. The ones I did experience were: guilt. Second-guessing. The sense that I'd made a mistake.

2. I ended a friendship.

Not dramatically. But I stopped accommodating someone who only called when they needed something. I stopped managing their feelings about my unavailability. I stopped performing the role of "reliable friend who's always there."

The old script says: Keep the peace. Stay available. Manage their feelings. Don't be selfish.

The new script said: I matter too.

What I discovered: When you stop being useful, some people vanish. They weren't actually your friends. They were using the script you were performing.

And I had to grieve that. Not because they were bad people, but because I'd confused their need for my self-erasure with actual relationship.

3. I asked for help.

I hired someone to handle administrative work that was drowning me. Work I was "supposed" to be able to do. Work that made me miserable but that I did anyway because the script says: You should be capable of everything.

The old script says: Asking for help is weakness.

The new script said: I'm excellent at some things and terrible at others. That's not weakness—that's self-awareness.

But here's what happened: Some people used it as evidence. "See, she can't actually handle it. She needed to hire help. What kind of leader does that?"

The script I was trying to burn was being used against me. The system was turning my attempt to break free into proof that something was wrong with me.

The Double Bind Of Breaking The Script

This is the part that broke something open for me.

I tried to stop performing the script. And with every attempt, I had more evidence that I should be performing it.

When I said no, I was selfish. When I asked for help, I was inadequate. When I set boundaries, I was difficult. When I stopped disappearing, I was too much.

The more I tried to stop reading the old lines, the more the system used that as proof the script was right about me all along.

That's the double bind. It's not a personal failure. It's the system protecting itself.

Because the script serves something. It serves people who need you to be available. It serves workplaces that need you to over-function. It serves families that need you to keep the peace.

Breaking the script isn't about being "brave" or "choosing yourself." It's about recognizing that the system benefits from you staying in role. And deciding whether you're going to keep giving that to it.

What Actually Changed

I didn't have some magical moment where I "burned the script" and everything became different.

What changed was much quieter and much harder: I stopped believing the script was true.

Not through willpower. Through recognition.

I recognized that the script was written for someone else. Someone who didn't have ADHD. Someone who could sustain indefinite self-erasure without breaking. Someone for whom the trade-off (your life for their comfort) actually made sense.

It never made sense for me. It just exhausted me.

I recognized that the people who praised me most were the ones who benefited most from my performance. My self-erasure was their comfort. My exhaustion was their stability.

I recognized that "strong" and "reliable" were codes for "will sacrifice herself and not complain about it."

And I recognized that the system would keep using the script against me—would keep reinterpreting my attempts to break free as proof I was flawed—for as long as I was trying to convince it I wasn't.

What I Had To Accept

Breaking the script didn't mean I suddenly got everything right.

Some of my breaking away was real discernment. Some of it was just hurt and anger at being used. Some of it was me finally having permission to be selfish in ways that were actually healthy.

The difference mattered, but it took time to sort out.

I also had to accept: Some people left. Some people needed me to stay in role and couldn't handle that I didn't. Some relationships that had been built on my self-erasure couldn't survive me showing up as myself.

I had to grieve that. Not because I was wrong to change, but because the loss was real.

And I had to stop performing the script for approval. Because as long as I was watching to see if people would validate my breaking free, I was still in the script. I was just reading different lines.

What The Script Actually Cost

Forty years of showing up smaller than I was. Of managing everyone's emotions instead of my own. Of believing my worth was measured in how much I could handle. Of confusing self-erasure with love. Of exhaustion so deep I didn't even know it was there until it nearly broke me.

The script cost me:

• Authentic relationships (hard to have them when you're disappearing)

• Clarity about what I actually wanted (for decades I didn't even ask)

• Energy for the work that actually mattered (I was too busy performing)

• Permission to fail (the script requires perfection)

• My own body (I learned not to listen to what it was telling me)

The script didn't just cost me. It cost the people who loved me too. Because they were in relationship with a performance, not a person.

Here's What Matters Now

I'm not "healed" from the script. I'm not performing a different version of myself that's more authentic.

I'm recognizing which scripts are still running and which ones I can actually stop reading.

And I'm being honest about this: It's not about individual choice or courage. It's about recognizing that not everyone is rowing in the same direction.

Some people need you to stay in the script. Their comfort depends on it. Their stability requires your self-erasure.

Recognizing which relationships are viable—which people can handle you showing up as yourself—and which are dead ends isn't unkindness. It's survival.

The women who needed me to suffer silently so they could model strength? We had to part ways.

The workplaces that needed me to over-function without asking for support? We're not compatible.

The people who only called when they needed something? That's not friendship.

That's not failure. That's clarity.

The Real Work

The real work isn't burning the script once and being free.

It's recognizing that systems and people have a vested interest in you staying in role. And asking: Am I going to keep giving them that? Am I aligned with what this requires?

The real work is: Which parts of the script am I still reading because I actually believe them? Which parts because I'm afraid of what happens if I stop? Which parts because the people around me need me to?

The real work is: Can I build relationships and work situations where I don't have to choose between being useful and being myself?

Some of those situations exist. Most require me to be very clear about who I am and what I'm available for. And to be willing to walk away from dead ends.

For Anyone Still Reading Someone Else's Lines

Before you try to "burn the script," ask:

• What is the script giving me? (Often: identity, belonging, worth, direction)

• Who benefits from me staying in role? (The answer matters)

• What happens when I stop? (Not just to me—to the system)

• Which parts of this script are actually true for how I operate?

• Which relationships survive me not disappearing?

Because here's what's real: You can't just decide to stop performing and have it work. The system is designed to keep you in role.

What you can do: Get clear about what you actually are. Notice which people and situations can handle that. And stop wasting energy on the ones that can't.

That's not selfish. That's not breaking your family or your culture or your past.

That's recognizing what's actually happening and deciding what you're going to do about it.

The Questions

What script were you handed that you're still reading?

Where are you disappearing to make others comfortable?

What would you want if you didn't have to manage everyone else's expectations?

Who benefits from you staying in role? And is that relationship worth what it costs you?

What's one inherited expectation you're ready to release—not as rejection, but as recognition?

What would your life look like if you stopped performing for approval and started building it around alignment?

And the hardest: Which people and situations are actually dead ends, no matter how hard you try?

Because recognizing those isn't failure.

It's survival.

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