It's common to look at certain patterns in our lives, perhaps behaviors, thoughts, or ways of relating to others, and feel frustrated. Maybe you catch yourself always trying to fix things for people, or you freeze up when confronted, or you struggle to say no even when you're overwhelmed. It can feel like these deeply ingrained responses are holding you back, creating problems, or making things harder than they need to be. When we label these as "bad habits" or "flaws," it's easy to get stuck in self-criticism, wishing we could simply stop doing them. But what if these very patterns, which now feel like roadblocks, were once your most effective tools for survival?
Why we develop certain coping mechanisms
Think about the environment you grew up in, or challenging periods in your life. We are incredibly adaptable creatures, and our minds and bodies are always working to keep us safe. When faced with stress, uncertainty, or difficult emotions, we develop strategies. These aren't random; they are often ingenious responses to real threats, whether those threats were physical danger, emotional neglect, or overwhelming expectations. Your younger self, or a past version of you, figured out what worked to get through. Perhaps being quiet made you invisible to conflict. Maybe taking charge ensured some sense of control when things felt chaotic. Or perhaps always being agreeable helped you avoid punishment or rejection. These were active, intelligent choices made in challenging circumstances.
What did you do to survive?
I often ask people: "What things did you take on, or put into your personality, to get through all of this every step along the way?" This isn't about blaming your past; it's about understanding the roots of your current behavior. Every coping mechanism, no matter how unhelpful it feels today, had a purpose. It was a skill you acquired to manage a situation that felt too big, too scary, or too painful. For instance, if you learned that expressing needs led to disappointment or punishment, you might have developed a strong sense of self-reliance, even to the point of pushing people away when they try to help now. This self-reliance wasn't a flaw; it was a protective shield.
These patterns kept you safe then
It's important to acknowledge the incredible job these mechanisms did. "All these coping mechanisms that we've talked about have kept you sane," I might say. "They've brought you here." This means you navigated incredibly tough terrain, and you're here today because those strategies worked. They protected your most vulnerable parts. They allowed you to keep going when giving up wasn't an option. For example, if you developed a tendency to overthink every social interaction, it might have been a way to anticipate and prevent perceived social dangers. If you always jumped in to rescue others, perhaps it was a way to feel useful and loved when you felt powerless or overlooked yourself.
They were a rescue fantasy
Sometimes, the coping strategy wasn't about directly solving a problem, but about managing the internal experience of it. When faced with hopelessness, you might have developed a powerful inner critic, believing that if you just tried harder or were perfect, the bad things wouldn't happen. "I imagine that's a way that you survived the feelings of hopelessness," I've said. The inner critic, while painful now, was a way to maintain some sense of agency, however misguided. It was a desperate attempt to control an uncontrollable situation, a fantasy that if you were just "good enough," you'd be safe. Or perhaps you learned to numb out, to disconnect from your body or emotions, which was vital for getting through overwhelming experiences, even if it now makes it hard to feel present.
Reframing your inner critic or tendencies to fix things
When we understand the survival origins of our coping mechanisms, we can begin to see them with compassion rather than judgment. That inner critic isn't trying to hurt you; it's an old guard, still standing watch, doing what it thinks will keep you safe. Your tendency to fix everything isn't a character flaw; it's a deeply ingrained pattern of trying to create stability and prevent anticipated pain, often learned from trying to hold your world together when you were young. This reframing doesn't mean we keep doing things that no longer serve us. It means we can approach change not by shaming ourselves, but by acknowledging the past wisdom of these strategies. We can then begin to gently update them, letting these old guards know that new, safer ways are possible now.
Understanding where these patterns come from is the first step toward building new, healthier ways of responding. It allows us to move from self-blame to self-compassion, recognizing that the very parts of ourselves we might wish to change were once our most powerful allies.
Warmly, Angela