How Hypnotherapy Helped Me Set Boundaries, Say No & Stop Apologizing

It’s amazing how quickly changes can begin to ripple when you’re ready. I’m just three sessions into my hypnotherapy journey with Joseph, and already, I’m experiencing some remarkable shifts. I’m establishing boundaries, I’ve stopped over-apologizing, and the best one yet: I’m unapologetically saying No. Sometimes, almost imperceptibly, and then suddenly, the mind shift is happening.

My third session was unlike the first two. While the initial sessions felt more overtly visual, vibrant, and explorative, this one felt far less so. It was like my subconscious was finally primed to “get busy healing.”

My intention for session number three was a core desire to set better boundaries, stop over-apologizing, and to adopt a “guilt-free no,” into my vocabulary. I also shared more about the persistent flashbacks I’d been experiencing – fragmented images and scents from childhood, and specific people. They were growing in frequency, and while no longer as disruptive, I found myself wondering: Is my subconscious yearning for a voice? If so, then let’s give it one!

I settled into the familiar recliner while Joseph got started.

Feet up, arms out, deep breath. Let’s go. The relaxation induction, a familiar story of water transforming from a single drop to a rushing stream, and then the vast ocean, set a profoundly sensory stage. Waves rolled onto the shore, and as I looked up with eyes closed, a gentle smile on my face, I felt the breeze. And then, just like in session two, my beloved dog appeared. Dolby Edward Cermak, a popular one-time guest on CNN and former King of the Neighborhood.

Reunited again, this time searching for shelter on a Pacific Northwest-like beach. Unable to find someplace safe and cozy to land, we venture underground. Here, we can see the ocean as if through an aquarium tank. Yet, the safety we seek still eludes us; both Dolby and I feel unsettled. Dolby, sensing this, takes the lead. We leave the sandy cubby and follow a trail, shaded by trees and occasional awnings, until we find respite under a slightly tattered, sun-bleached aqua awning.  There, curled together on a blue beach blanket, we watch the ocean roll onto the shore, just twenty feet away at low tide. A fresh, light breeze graces my face, and a profound sleepiness settles over me. This peaceful state arrives a bit slower than in previous sessions, but it’s just as welcome.

Returning to the First Feeling of Unsafety

Joseph guides me as far back as I’m willing to go, to a place where I first feel unsafe. And there I am, a tiny infant, screaming at the top of my lungs, rocking back and forth in a wind-up swing in the back corner of a large yard. Alone. Just a baby. My face beet red, fists held high, and arms shaking as if begging to be picked up. Gasping for air through each scream. I’ve heard this story many times throughout my life, but this time, its not a story; I’m there, in real time. I can see myself, hear the cries, even smell the faint scent of infancy. I’m utterly alone. Probably hungry. And very afraid.

Joseph invites me to call in anyone I wish to come to the corner of the yard, someone who will make me feel safe. I call in my parents and my sister. Joseph walks me through the process of creating safety, and while the details are somewhat blurred, I vividly remember a slew of people showing up, holding me, rocking me in their arms, making me feel undeniably safe and loved. Holding me until I fall asleep in someone’s arms.

Uncovering Early Sibling Dynamics

What follows was truly mind-blowing, a testament to the power of our brain to remember and re-experience. There are gaps in the sequence, but I distinctly recall being on a blanket on the floor, and my sister, two years older than me, is crying. She needs to be acknowledged, picked up, held, loved. And I, a tiny infant myself, feel utterly helpless. No one comes to soothe. The fact that my subconscious remembers this is totally mind-blowing.

My sister and I, just two years apart, have never been close, not with the kind of closeness I’ve always craved. For years, I believed it was because she resented me, feeling she had to be the parent I seemingly didn’t have. This session brought a deeper understanding of that dynamic.

I remember in second grade, my teacher telling my parents she thought I was “slow.” Devastated, they had me tested, only to discover I was not only perfectly fine but “pretty darn smart.” So, what happened in those early years?

Small, seemingly mundane moments now carry significant weight: My mom was always in a rush, chronically late to everything. When it was time to leave, my sister, instead of waiting, would tie my shoes for me so we could get out the door and prevent Mom from being any madder because we weren’t keeping up. And she’d tell me the time as we waited for the “30-minute mark” to play outside. So while my teacher thought I was slow because I couldn’t tie my shoes or tell time, she didn’t realize my sister was doing it for me.

Her resentment played itself out in abandoning me. She’d leave me outside for hours playing hide-and-seek, convinced I’d found the ultimate hiding spot, only to find she’d gone back inside, leaving me alone until I finally came in. I’d wait for her for hours. Behind the air unit, at the top of our shade tree. I thought I was the best hider in the hood. Not the case. She loved to abandon me. It would be a lifetime of this game. Knowing how terrified I was of the snowplow, she’d lock me outside when I was so young I could barely reach the doorknob. Pounding to get in, tears running down my face, she’d walk away, smirking. When I was 9, we had bats in our basement. Once again, she’d lock me on the other side of the door. The side with the bats. Again and again, I trusted her. While today her antics makes me laugh, it certainly wasn’t funny at the time. Unfortunately, I trusted her every time she tricked me. It’s a trait I would carry with me into adulthood until the day the ultimate and very costly betrayal by a business partner—one I should never have trusted—would cost me nearly everything. And I would finally seek help through EMDR. More on that doozy of a story when the time is right.

The poignant truth is that, from day one, “right outta the sack,” it was every person for themselves. “Watch out. Your Mom’s on the warpath!” Dad would shout. “Shut your door and stay out of her way.” My mom was a full-blown narcissist, bringing children into the world not because she longed to be a mother, but for reasons only she knew. I’ve always suspected it was so he wouldn’t leave her. Couldn’t leave her. We, her children, ended up caring for her every need. And my sister, being the elder, bore a double burden until she left for college and never returned.

It’s only recently that I’m beginning to comprehend what forged my mother’s soul-sucking narcissism: our common trauma at the hands of her father. A trauma running so deep that her subconscious had blacked it all out. Her own insecurities, it turns out, rivaled mine to the death.

This session was less about the visual journey and more about unearthing the very foundations of my early experiences and relationships. The clarity and raw emotion of witnessing these moments as if in real-time is a testament to the profound healing work happening. It’s helping me connect the dots between past dynamics and current patterns, paving the way for even deeper understanding and, ultimately, more profound shifts in how I relate to the world, the significance of compassion,  and, crucially, to myself.

The Power of a Guilt-Free No

This newfound clarity is already translating into real-world changes. For instance, a friend recently asked me to watch her three large dogs. I love this woman and value our friendship. However, I was already watching another friend’s two dogs, and she thought it would be terrific if I could add hers to the mix. In fact, before asking me if I would care for them, she contacted the owner of the two dogs i was already committed to caring for and asked him if I could watch them. He said yes.  And she expected me to say yes, too. Instead, I simply said no. She was taken aback; she didn’t understand. And I didn’t apologize. She asked again, mentioning they’d have to be boarded. I told her no, again. I explained that caring for five large dogs sounded very stressful, and I wasn’t up for a stressful four days, especially since hers would be in unfamiliar territory—deer chasing territory with a highway too close for comfort. I know her dogs very well and love them dearly. But the answer was simple: “No.” She found someone else to help, and we love each other just the same. There will be other times to help. Now was not that time.

And here’s an especially weird and fabulous thing that’s happened as a result of session number two (which you can read here): someone asked about an individual from my past and I had no desire to talk about him. None. I looked at the person and didn’t say a word. After an awkward silence, she said “off limits, hey?” I replied with “yes.” And that’s where I left it. The chapter is closed. No need for any unnecessary updates. No need to relive anything. No need to gossip. Like other old habits that don’t serve me, that door is simply and miraculously closed.