You probably know by now that I have a sweet little Boston Terrier named Grimby. He is curled up next to me while I write this very piece, staring at me with his huge, round, beautiful brown eyes and snoring like a rock polisher.
Grimby’s almost ten and he’s the very best dog in the whole world and history of dogs ever. I understand that your dog is also the best dog in the world, just like everyone else’s dogs. I’m not a monster. I get it. Dogs are The Best.
What you need to know about Grimby is probably everything, but today, I’ll settle for you knowing that he is really easy to train. The trainer and vet have never seen a dog so food-focused, and it turns out, a clever breed and a hearty appetite = an easily trainable pup. He will literally work for food.
To put this in perspective, which will tell you a lot about Grimby but also a lot about me, whilst bored in the early days of the pandemic, I decided to retrain Grimby using Harry Potter spells instead of boring old normal commands. He does a killer Stupefy and I can Accio Grimby! from just about anywhere. We’re working on Expelliarmus (drop/leave it) and Petrificus Totallus (stay).
Grimby and me? We are nerds.
Anyway, I’m telling you all this in part because it’s delightful, I know, but also because I’m making the case that my dog very much knows the rules and how to follow them. He knows what is expected and he knows the lines he needs to toe.
And yet. Yet.
Sometimes, he chooses not to listen. Let me be clear: I know he HEARS me. He’s just choosing not to listen. I know he knows what is expected, just the same as I can tell from his expression and body language when he’s opting instead to completely disregard my express command and choosing to exercise his free will, much to my ineffectual frustration and annoyance.
Let me also say, good luck catching a Boston on the run. They’re shockingly nimble.
Now, should I get all twisted up because sometimes my dog doesn’t listen to me? Probably not. He’s a dog, after all, literally just doing what dogs do, which is running around and living his best dog life. But do I sometimes get mighty upset? Sure I do. It’s really freaking annoying when I want him to do something or not do something and he crosses my clearly expressed line. Especially when I am worried about his safety, which is a fun and favourite hobby of mine.
I make it meaningful about him (he doesn’t love me or respect me) and I SURELY make it meaningful about me (I’m pathetic and unlovable). What fun.
This is the thing about boundaries. We set them up and we expect them to be upheld. And we are endlessly surprised when they aren’t. We’re upset. Angry. Frustrated. Affronted! It’s adorable, really.
What we want are boundaries that act like impenetrable force fields. Now, that would be awesome. After all, it can feel monumentally challenging to even set a boundary if you’re not accustomed to do having them. The least a boundary could do is be impervious to being broken, for crying out loud.
So, how do you create boundaries that don’t get crossed? The short answer is that you don’t. You can’t. I’ve just saved you a lifetime of trying to do something that is impossible. You’re welcome. Look at all that spare time you now have.
Setting a boundary is like putting up a fence. You put up a fence to keep people/critters either inside or out. We’d all like to think that putting up the fence was the end of the story, and that the fence becomes a magical barrier that defies all attempts to cross it.
Alas! ‘Tis not so.
What really happens is that when we put up fences—or boundaries, in case you’re not following the literal/figurative metaphor here—we’ve merely drawn a line in the sand and other things can and will try to cross it. It’s just human nature to push boundaries. And dog nature. And maybe just Nature’s nature, period.
Regardless, when you put up a fence, you’ve only done part of your job. What remains is for you to patrol your boundaries and check it from time to time, mending it when parts of it inevitably break down, or are broken down.
My fence, my responsibility. Your fence, yours.
If I built a fence to keep cattle inside or out, I shouldn’t be shocked if/when cows take advantage of a section that’s fallen and wander across it. Again, it’s my desire that they respect my boundaries, not necessarily the cows’ desire to follow my wishes. If the grass looks tastier on the other side, then the cows are naturally going to want to get across the fence, whether it’s taking advantage of a weak point, or just bulldozing it down altogether, because tasty, tasty grass.
Boundary pushing is not necessarily maliciously intended, though maybe sometimes you’re dealing with someone who seems hell-bent on blowing your boundaries to smithereens. Codependent relationships are rife with rampant boundary crossing, for example. It’s not rocket science: obviously someone who has a problem with your healthy boundaries is a person who was benefiting from you having none.
But most of the time, it’s just other humans who are busy in their own lives and worlds, trying to get their needs and desires met, and sometimes that means they fumble, bump into or crash through the lines you’ve set up to ensure you meet your own needs and desires. Sometimes, boundaries create tension, just like trying to build a new fence where two neighbours can’t agree on the property line.
Keeping my boundaries is my job, not anyone else’s. As nice as it would be to think that all I needed to do is create a boundary and then everyone would honour it perfectly forever and always, it’s not very realistic.
Expecting others to absolutely adhere to our boundaries is a recipe for a lot of frustration, resentment and feeling helplessly victimized. We need to express our boundaries more often than we think we need to, and definitely more often than we want to, communicating where the lines are for people, before, during and after they attempt to cross them.
Other people are going to test my boundaries and yours, too. The same way you and I will test other people’s boundaries (you know I’m speaking the truth here).
Yes, we can set boundaries and communicate them. And we can trust people to honour them. In fact, we have to trust people to honour them (see last week’s post on how trust actually works, which is not the way you want it to work), meaning, we have to practice trusting that people will respect our boundaries even though we cannot know for certain that they’ll never muck it up.
A crossed boundary is not a boundary that didn’t work. It’s like a bike helmet that gets cracked after a fall. The helmet cracked so that your head didn’t. Keeping your head from cracking was the helmet’s job, not staying pristine and perfect.
A boundary set is almost inevitably a boundary that’ll be crossed. And a crossed boundary is one that’s been tested and has the scars to prove it. It shows us where our “fences” need some attention; where we need to be more clearly or frequently expressing our needs and wants, and creating explicit agreements where there are otherwise expectations and assumptions (we also call this “mind reading”).
When a boundary is set, it needs to be monitored and tended. If it’s broken, it needs to be mended. And that is are our job and no one else’s. Neglected boundaries, like broken fences, are really easy to cross over. We shouldn’t be too surprised that the neighbour’s dog crossed through a broken fence panel into our yards, even if it was annoying that he pooped in the yard.
What changes if you are the one responsible for keeping your boundaries? What becomes possible if you can let go of the misguided belief that your walls are fragile and meant to be guarded by everyone else, and instead, you can create hardy and easily repairable, Do-It-Yourself boundaries instead?
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