Why Is It So Hard to Set Boundaries: When They Were Never Given the Chance to Exist
- Caroline St-Onge
- 3 days ago
- 13 min read
She feels it right away. It’s not what is being said, but how. Something goes too far. Her stomach tightens slightly. She barely notices it, but it’s there. She could respond. Say that it doesn’t feel right to her. But already, another thought comes: maybe it’s not that important. So she lets it pass. And something in her steps back. As if, already, a boundary had been sensed… without being able to exist.
He doesn’t always understand what bothers him, but he feels that something is off. A remark lingers, like a subtle misalignment. He thinks about it afterward. Long afterward. In the moment, he smiled, nodded, continued the conversation. It’s only later that the words come. Precise. Accurate. But they come too late to change what has already happened.
There are moments when personal space is crossed. Not necessarily in an obvious way. Not always through explicitly aggressive words. But something goes beyond a limit: a remark that goes too far, a way of responding that distorts the reality of what is being experienced, a tone that imposes itself and takes up more space than it should. And immediately, a sensation of intrusion appears.
As if a space had been crossed, as if someone were where they didn’t belong. The body reacts without delay: tension rises, the stomach tightens, the breath becomes shorter. There is a clear discomfort, a sense of being invaded. And with it, an inner certainty: something here is not being respected.
This could be put into words. A boundary could be set. A stop could be marked. It is there. Precise. Undeniable.
But in the moment of doing so, nothing comes out. The impulse cuts off before reaching expression. Inside, several movements overlap: one part clearly perceives the lack of respect, another hesitates and already begins to reduce, explain, downplay. Maybe it’s not that serious. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Maybe responding would create something worse.
So the adjustment happens. The boundary is not set. The conversation continues. And what was felt remains there, in the background, without having found expression.
What is unsettling, in those moments, is having clearly felt that a personal space—a boundary—had been crossed, without having been able to protect it. As if the boundary existed, but the difficulty in setting limits prevented it from translating into action.
Contemporary approaches in attachment and relational neurobiology allow us to understand this phenomenon differently. In these micro-moments, the nervous system does not prioritize coherence or self-assertion: it prioritizes maintaining the connection. If, at an implicit level, setting a boundary is associated with rupture, escalation, or loss of relational safety, then the organism orients toward adaptation, because in its history, protecting the bond has been more essential than protecting the self.
She talks about it with a friend. She’s told: you should just say it. So she nods. It sounds simple when put that way. She tries to imagine the scene differently. She sees herself responding, stating something clearly. But as soon as she returns to the real situation, her body doesn’t follow. It’s not that she doesn’t know what to say. It’s that, in that moment, it doesn’t move.
He starts to think that maybe there’s something he’s not doing right. Others seem to manage it. Saying no. Taking a stand. He understands the principle too. But in certain situations, he feels it slipping away. As if it’s not a matter of decision. As if, in the exact moment, something takes over without asking his permission.
The myth of self-assertion
When it becomes difficult to set a boundary, the most common response is simple: you should learn to say no, assert yourself more, have more confidence, be clearer. As if the problem were essentially a matter of will, communication, or technique.
These approaches are not wrong. But they miss the essential point, because they intervene at the level of behavior, while the block occurs much earlier, in how the nervous system perceives the relationship.
Many people know very well, in theory, what they should say. They recognize the situations where a boundary would be necessary. They can even formulate the words mentally. And yet, when the situation arises, something freezes, blurs, or turns away, as if access to that capacity closes.
Research in attachment and nervous system regulation shows that this type of response is not simply a lack of skill. In relational contexts perceived as sensitive—often without conscious awareness—the organism does not prioritize self-assertion, but the preservation of connection.
This can take the form of different adaptive strategies: adjusting, minimizing, staying silent, conforming to the other’s dynamic.
From this perspective, not setting a boundary is a coherent response within an internal organization where the bond is perceived as more essential than the boundary. It means that, in that moment, the ability to set a limit becomes temporarily inaccessible, because maintaining the connection is perceived as the priority.
This is why messages like “you just have to say no” or “you need to assert yourself” can create a sense of mismatch, even guilt. Because they address the conscious part, while the movement preventing the boundary from emerging operates at another level.
She no longer quite knows what she feels. Not completely. Something is there, but it remains unclear. So she listens to the other. Their way of speaking, explaining, seeing things. And little by little, what she initially felt drifts away. As if it loses clarity in contact with what comes from the outside.
He catches himself slightly shifting position. Not intentionally. More like a subtle adjustment, almost automatic. What he initially thought becomes less clear. He adapts to the rhythm, the tone, the logic of the other. And without really noticing, he loses the point from which he could have responded.
Personal boundaries: an internal capacity before being an action
Boundaries are often understood as something we say or do: saying no, withdrawing, expressing disagreement.
But they don’t start there.
They are not primarily a matter of words or behavior. They stem from a more fundamental capacity: staying in contact with what is felt within, without being invaded or redefined by the other. A boundary allows one to distinguish what belongs to oneself… and what belongs to the other.
Work on the development of the self, particularly that of Murray Bowen, describes this capacity as differentiation. It is the ability to remain in relationship with another without merging with them, while staying in contact with one’s internal experience, without it being immediately absorbed or redefined by the relational dynamic.
In a similar perspective, Dan Siegel speaks of integration: the capacity to be both distinct and connected, without losing oneself in the other or cutting off from the relationship.
In this sense, a boundary does not begin externally. It is first an internal organization: a way of remaining in contact with one’s own experience without confusing it with what belongs to the other.
Research in attachment, notably by Mary Ainsworth and John Bowlby, shows that this capacity develops in contexts where the child can exist as an individual without risking the loss of the bond with the attachment figure.
It is this safety that later allows one to feel a boundary without immediately experiencing it as a threat to the relationship. When this base is sufficiently stable, boundaries emerge more naturally. They do not require constant effort: they arise as a continuation of what is felt.
But when this base is fragile or incomplete, boundaries cannot simply be “learned.” Because it is not only about knowing what to say. It is about being able to remain in contact with oneself at the very moment when the connection becomes uncertain… and something inside begins to contract.
She observed a lot as a child. There were moments when it was better not to insist. Moments when certain reactions changed the atmosphere. So she learned to sense in advance. To adjust her responses. To keep to herself what might disturb.
He doesn’t always remember the situations precisely. But he recognizes a familiar feeling. The need to stay quiet so everything goes smoothly. Not to complicate things. Over time, it became natural. Like a way of being, rather than a choice.
Boundaries are built in attachment
This capacity develops very early, in the relationship with attachment figures—most often parents or caregivers who ensure the child’s safety and co-regulation.
The quality of this environment directly influences how the child’s fundamental needs can be met: the need for attachment—remaining safe in the presence of the adult—and the need for authenticity—remaining in contact with what is felt and being able to express it.
When safety is sufficient and co-regulation is present, these two needs can coexist. Concretely, this appears in interactions like these: a child cries and the adult recognizes what they are experiencing; a refusal can be expressed without being crushed; an emotion is welcomed without being corrected or redefined.
Through these repeated experiences, something gradually becomes established: what is felt can exist without compromising the safety of the bond. In this context, secure attachment can develop. The child experiences that they can remain connected to themselves while being safe with the other.
It is within this continuity that boundaries are built. They become what allows one to be in the presence of another without losing sight of oneself.
When the environment is not sufficiently safe, this balance becomes more difficult to maintain.
As highlighted by Gabor Maté, when a child feels something that risks compromising the safety of the bond with the adult—a refusal, anger, discomfort—a tension arises. On one side, there is what is being experienced internally. On the other, the need to remain safe in the presence of the adult on whom the child depends.
For the child, this dependency is vital. They cannot maintain a sense of safety without this proximity. In this context, what comes from within can no longer be fully maintained if it threatens the bond. The adjustment is not random: it orients toward what least threatens safety.
In other words, the child prioritizes attachment. This is not a conscious choice, but an adaptive organization: what is felt is attenuated, transformed, or set aside to preserve safety.
In this type of environment, certain dynamics gradually establish themselves: discomfort is minimized or left unanswered; a movement of withdrawal is contradicted or prevented; an experience is redefined from the outside.
Little by little, an implicit learning takes place: what is experienced is not always acceptable, and differentiating oneself may weaken closeness with the other. The child adjusts accordingly. They modify what they feel, doubt their perceptions, and gradually move away from them.
In this context, boundaries cannot develop as a point of balance. They become associated with tension, sometimes even with risk for maintaining closeness.
The nervous system then integrates a different logic: staying in relationship may require disconnecting from oneself.
These early experiences influence how attachment organizes in adulthood.
In insecure patterns, different configurations may emerge: anxious or ambivalent attachment, where boundaries become blurred; avoidant attachment, where they tend to rigidify; or disorganized attachment, where they fluctuate without stability.
Difficulty setting boundaries cannot be understood as a simple lack of relational skills. It is embedded in attachment organizations where differentiation may have been associated with a loss of safety.
She sometimes remains, after a conversation, with a strange feeling. Not clearly unpleasant. Not completely right either. Something doesn’t align, but she can’t say what. If asked, she will say everything is fine. And yet, inside, it remains somewhat blurred.
He sometimes leaves an exchange wondering what he actually thinks. At first, he had an idea. A fairly clear impression.
But the more the discussion went on, the more it mixed. What the other said took up space. And he, without noticing, drifted away from what he had initially felt.
When boundaries dissolve: understanding relational enmeshment
In some contexts, boundaries are not just fragile: they were never formed as a stable internal reference.
This phenomenon is described in developmental psychology and family therapy literature as enmeshment. Enmeshment refers to a lack of sufficient differentiation between self and other. Internal experiences—emotions, needs, perceptions—are no longer clearly distinct. They blend or reorganize according to the other.
In this dynamic, it becomes unclear what belongs to oneself and what comes from outside. The internal reference point from which a boundary could emerge becomes unstable, sometimes even inaccessible.
This functioning develops in environments where closeness to the other takes a central place, sometimes at the expense of differentiation.
The child then implicitly learns to stay adjusted to the other in order to maintain the relationship. Feeling distinct can become uncomfortable, even threatening. This lack of differentiation may also be accompanied by phenomena such as parentification, where the child implicitly takes on emotional functions beyond their role.
Over time, these organizations influence identity construction. Defining oneself through the other, constantly adjusting, or losing access to one’s internal references become ingrained ways of functioning.
In adulthood, this may manifest in subtle ways: difficulty knowing what one truly feels in an interaction, or distinguishing one’s own perspective from that of the other. Discomfort may arise without being clearly identifiable, leading to a tendency to rely on the other to validate one’s experience.
It may become difficult to set boundaries because disagreement activates a disproportionate tension. In some relationships, there may be a sense of needing to constantly adjust, to the point of losing sight of what would be right for oneself.
There may also be a tendency to take responsibility for the other’s emotional state, as if it became primary, or to feel a diffuse guilt when a movement of differentiation arises.
In some cases, these configurations may be part of more problematic relational dynamics, such as coercive control. In such relationships, internal reference points are gradually questioned, and the space needed to define oneself becomes increasingly restricted. What is felt may be minimized, redefined, or invalidated, reinforcing dependence on the other’s perspective.
When internal boundaries are already fragile, these dynamics can be particularly difficult to recognize. Adjustment to the other, already present, may intensify until it becomes automatic. Confusion sets in, and differentiation becomes increasingly costly.
These manifestations are not always recognized as such, because they often occur in relationships perceived as close, invested, or important. From the outside, nothing seems problematic. Inside, however, confusion persists.
An image can help grasp this dynamic: two threads tightly pressed against each other, their fibers intertwining. As they merge, it becomes difficult to distinguish where one ends and the other begins.
Attempting to differentiate is not simply about setting a boundary. It first involves rediscovering an internal space from which a boundary can begin to exist.
She tries to say something. Not long. Just one sentence. But as soon as she begins, her body reacts. Her voice shifts slightly. Her breath shortens. She senses something tightening in front of her. So she adjusts. Softens. Explains. And the sentence she wanted to say becomes something else.
He knows he should take a stand. He feels it. It’s clear. But when it’s time to speak, everything contracts. Words get tangled, or disappear. And very quickly, he tries to calm the situation. As if what matters most becomes keeping things smooth—even if it means letting go of what he wanted to say.
When setting a boundary activates the nervous system
Setting a boundary becomes a movement that directly engages the nervous system, even before words appear.
What may seem simple from the outside—saying no, expressing disagreement, withdrawing—can become difficult to sustain internally.
Before words are even formed, something happens in the body: tension appears, the breath shifts, the body may contract or freeze.
It can become difficult to clearly access what is felt, or to stay with it long enough.
Sometimes, a movement of justification emerges almost immediately, as if to soften the impact of taking a position. In other situations, a freeze response appears: words don’t come, or arrive too late. There may also be attempts to soothe the other: explaining, reassuring, minimizing, or adjusting to avoid escalating tension.
The boundary is then abandoned—not because it is not valid, but because the system is primarily seeking to restore a sense of safety.
There may be an immediate pull to go back: minimizing what was felt, readjusting one’s position, or reconnecting to ease the tension. Guilt may arise, sometimes diffusely, without clear link to the present situation.
These reactions are deeply coherent with earlier learning, where differentiating oneself could represent a real risk. The nervous system is not only responding to what is happening now, but also to what has been lived.
Setting a boundary is not only about finding the right words. It involves being able to remain in contact with what is happening inside, even when the other reacts, insists, withdraws, or disapproves.
What becomes difficult is maintaining a stable internal reference point to rely on at the very moment when the relationship comes under tension.
Reclaiming boundaries from within
Boundaries are not restored through willpower alone. Nor are they rebuilt simply by applying strategies. They emerge from a more subtle place—a place where it becomes possible to feel oneself, gradually, without having to correct.
Before being able to state a boundary, there is often a quieter moment: when something begins to be perceived. A tension, a discomfort, a movement of withdrawal—sometimes barely noticeable, but already there.
For a long time, these signals may have been set aside, softened, or redefined—not because they weren’t present, but because they could not be maintained within the relationship. Returning to them requires giving them space, recognizing them as they appear, even when they are vague, hesitant, or incomplete.
This movement is not always done alone. It often requires a relational space that is sufficiently safe for it to emerge—a space where it becomes possible to exist without being immediately redefined, corrected, or rejected. A place that supports differentiation and allows, little by little, the recognition of early signals that a boundary needs to be set.
In body- and nervous system-oriented approaches such as Somatic Experiencing (SE), this quality of presence is central. Attention is given to rhythm, sensations, micro-signals, without trying to change them too quickly. It is in this kind of space that the nervous system can gradually release protective responses and become more available to what is being experienced. Something begings to settle. Attention can return inward, without compromising connection with the other. From this safety, internal reference points begin to reappear.
A sensation becomes clearer.
A discomfort becomes perceptible.
An impulse begins to take shape.
These signals, often very subtle, indicate that an adjustment is needed—that a movement of differentiation is emerging. Gradually, an internal anchor forms, like a more stable presence from which it becomes possible to position oneself differently.
In this context, a boundary does not appear as a rupture, but as a continuity. A way of remaining in relationship without losing oneself.
This process does not follow a straight line. There may be hesitations, setbacks, moments of confusion. But through these movements, something reorganizes. And sometimes, almost imperceptibly, a shift occurs.
What once seemed impossible becomes conceivable.
What required considerable effort becomes slightly more accessible.
Not because the external situation has changed,
but because the relationship to oneself is also beginning to transform.
She notices that sometimes something remains. A discomfort that doesn’t disappear immediately. She feels it, lets it be there a little longer. And one day, in a familiar situation, a sentence comes out. Not perfect. Not fully stable. But she doesn’t take it back right away.
He catches himself pausing before responding. It’s brief, but different. He feels what is happening inside, without completely turning away from it. And in that small space, he chooses slightly differently. Not always. Not entirely. But enough for something to shift in what follows.
They discover that setting a boundary does not necessarily make the other disappear. That it is possible to stay, even when the body trembles a little. Even when the voice is not completely steady. There are still hesitations, moments where everything closes as before. But something moves. What they feel remains—gently, persistently. And sometimes, they stay. Even when it disturbs. Even when it shifts something externally. As if, little by little, losing what lives within them becomes more painful than risking losing the other.
Sometimes, it’s not the boundary that’s missing, but access to what is happening within, at the very moment it could be set.
A body- and nervous system–oriented approach can support this kind of process.
If these reflections resonate with your experience, you can receive upcoming articles from Le Fil Invisible™ and continue this process at your own pace.
This type of process can also take place within a guided setting, where it becomes possible to stay in contact with these inner reference points, at your own pace.
