My standards are trauma-informed, not because I’m guarded, but because I’ve learned what it costs to ignore my nervous system. They aren’t arbitrary. They aren’t trendy. They’re built from experience, pattern recognition, and the understanding that my body keeps receipts my mind once tried to override.
For a long time, I thought standards were about preference. About what I liked or wanted. What I’ve learned is that many of my standards exist because I know what dysregulation feels like. I know what it’s like to stay in environments that require constant self-monitoring. I know the exhaustion of adapting instead of feeling safe.
Trauma-informed standards aren’t about control. They’re about regulation. They’re about choosing consistency because unpredictability costs me too much. They’re about valuing emotional availability because emotional absence doesn’t just disappoint me, it destabilizes me.
I don’t require clarity because I’m demanding. I require it because ambiguity keeps my nervous system on edge. I don’t value follow-through because I’m rigid. I value it because broken patterns taught me what inconsistency does over time. These standards weren’t invented. They were earned.
There was a time when I questioned whether my expectations were too much. Whether asking for steadiness, communication, and emotional presence meant I was being difficult. What I eventually realized was that I wasn’t asking for perfection. I was asking for safety.
My standards exist to protect my capacity to stay open. Without them, I default to hypervigilance. I scan for shifts. I brace for impact. I lose access to my softness because I’m too busy trying to stay regulated in environments that don’t support it.
Trauma-informed doesn’t mean trauma-led. I’m not operating from fear. I’m operating from awareness. I know what happens when I dismiss my discomfort early. I know what it turns into when I keep telling myself I’m being too sensitive. My standards intervene before that happens.
These boundaries aren’t punishments. They’re preventative care. They allow me to stay grounded instead of reactive. They help me choose environments and people where my nervous system can rest instead of constantly recalibrate.
I don’t need chaos to feel chemistry anymore. I don’t confuse intensity with connection. I don’t interpret inconsistency as excitement. I understand how those patterns affect me, and I choose differently now.
My standards may look firm to people who benefit from flexibility. They may feel unnecessary to those who’ve never had to recover from emotional whiplash. But they make perfect sense to me. They allow me to show up regulated, present, and emotionally available.
I no longer apologize for choosing predictability over potential. For valuing safety over sparks. For prioritizing how something feels in my body, not just how it sounds in conversation. Trauma-informed standards listen to what my system is saying, not just what my mind hopes will change.
Knowing my worth means honoring what I’ve learned about myself. It means trusting that my needs aren’t arbitrary, even if they aren’t universal. It means choosing environments that support my healing instead of reopening wounds I worked hard to close.
My standards aren’t barriers. They’re filters. They don’t keep people out unfairly. They keep me well. And that, unfortunately, is non-negotiable now.
Final Thought
Standards shaped by experience aren’t excessive.
They’re informed.
And informed boundaries protect your ability to stay whole.
Disclaimer
I Know My Worth (Unfortunately) reflects personal reflection and lived experience. It’s not professional advice or a substitute for therapy or clinical guidance. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t.
