Caution Tape Boundaries

In life, we throw around the word boundaries with ease—especially when navigating painful new realities.

For me, during those years of struggle, boundaries looked like asking for location sharing, or open dialogue about communication with a relationship intruder, which often meant sharing text messages.

On the surface, those things might feel like an invasion of privacy. But when someone chooses to break trust, shouldn’t they also be willing to do the work to restore it?

Some will say yes. Others will say no.

I’ve come to believe every relationship is different. But I also believe this: boundaries built on controlling someone else—“you must do x, y, z”—rarely end well.

We’ve all seen yellow caution tape—on a crime show, across a Halloween decoration, stretched around a scene that warns: watch out, do not cross, stay away.

That’s how I see boundaries.

My heart is the crime scene, and the tape is what keeps out anything that could contaminate what’s left.

When someone we love hurts us, emotions run hot. It’s easy to create boundaries rooted in vengeance or spite. I never wanted to live in that space.

Yes, I was hurt—deeply. And like I’ve shared in previous blogs, there were many moments when my heart wanted retaliation.

But that’s not my desire anymore.

My desire is to stop the bleeding.

Because when someone chooses a different path, and their actions are exposed—or reported back to me—it feels like a rupture to the suture.

The pain that had started to subside suddenly gushes again. I can’t breathe normally. I’m gasping for understanding.

And it’s a pain only those who have loved deeply, and been betrayed in that love, will ever truly understand.

So I ask myself:

How do I protect the open wound?
How do I guard against what might crush the fragile progress I’ve made toward healing?

My answer was imaginary caution tape.

Rupture after rupture, I started to see the pattern of what kept breaking me.

It wasn’t always the big things—it was the images I couldn’t unsee, the over-shared details that sent my mind spinning, or the unintentional run-ins that yanked me right back to the moment my life was turned upside down.

Finding the balance between setting boundaries that protected my heart, while also not punishing my little person, was hard.

Honestly, it still is.

My very forgiving, very loving heart wrestles with it every single day.

Because I want nothing more than to see my person change—not just to love me the way I already know they do, but to love me better.

To learn what love is, and what it isn’t.

But the over-generosity of my heart often put me at risk.

I’d fall for the words, the glances, the subtle touches I missed—and too often, I gave in.

Those moments of giving in became more regular than the boundaries my heart really needed.

And the truth?

That let my person off the hook.

They didn’t see my hurt.

They got everything—new friendships, fun weekends grilling out, a steady work schedule that still leaned on my support, and me. Always me.

I was still their safe place. I still held all their hurt, their secrets, their struggles, and their love.

And if they had me and everything else, why would they change?

Meanwhile, I was breaking weekly.

So I had to get serious about protecting my heart.

But I knew those boundaries couldn’t just be reactionary—slapped up in anger every time I got hurt.

I had to be intentional, careful not to use more caution tape than necessary.

So I began asking myself:

Is this boundary protecting my heart?
Is this boundary protecting my head?
Will this boundary hurt my little person—and if so, how can I adjust it so they’re not affected?
Is this boundary unreasonable, or just inconvenient?

And if it was just inconvenient—well, I’m sorry. Because I didn’t choose the actions that hurt me.

But I can choose to make sure they don’t keep hurting me.

I decided I wouldn’t undo the work I’ve done in showing my person the kind of love and presence I wish I had given during our marriage.

But I also couldn’t keep giving them pieces of me, only to be betrayed by cloudy versions of the truth.

So, I shifted.

I still write the words I once would’ve shared with them—the messages, the pictures—but now, I write them to myself.

Keeping them private lets me hold onto the presence of my love, but without enabling it to be overlooked or taken for granted.

I will never shut down communication when my person needs my opinion or guidance, but I can no longer make myself endlessly available for casual chit-chat.

Too often, I found myself questioning: am I being talked to because I matter—or simply because others weren’t around in that moment?

My choice now is clear: access to me is a privilege.

It belongs only to those who love me honestly, fully, and not just out of convenience.

With our little person, of course, communication is never withheld.

But even then, I protect my peace.

I don’t start arguments or force phone calls that would only stir up fussiness or tension.

Enough has already changed their world—I won’t add more unnecessary weight to it.

I’ve also stopped going to my person’s place.

Instead, they adjust their nightly routine to bring our little one back after bedtime, or early in the morning to fit my schedule.

I won’t let my mind wander about who’s been there or when.

That door is closed.

And finally, me—myself.

Having me is not something you get to have halfway.

If you’re sharing your bed, your life, or your moments with someone else, you do not get to have that part of me too.

Love should not be hidden.

Intimacy should not be secret.

I deserve a love that is safe, open, and whole.

I am your person—but I refuse to live as a shadow.

Certain realities I can no longer ignore.

But I can protect my head and heart from seeing more than I can bear.

My presence in someone’s life is a gift—and it belongs only to those who treat it as such.

I am strong.
I am beautiful, inside and out.
I have the capacity to forgive anything.
And I love without conditions.

Maybe my caution tape looks extreme to some—but without it, I would bleed out.

If my person doesn’t notice its absence, then maybe they never loved me the way I believed.

But if they do, maybe they’ll see the truth their actions have created.

Maybe they’ll learn to love the way I know they can—the way I deserve.

And maybe, just maybe, they’ll come home.

Not to the old roots, but to plant new ones—roots stronger than we ever imagined possible.

Boundaries don’t mean I’ve stopped loving—they mean I’ve started loving myself too.

Either way, I will not let myself bleed out.

I know I’ve done the work to protect my heart and honor my healing.

I will protect the love I carry inside of me, because that love deserves a safe place to live.

And whether my person realizes it or not, I know the kind of love I give is rare—and I refuse to let it be wasted.

With that truth, I can walk forward stronger—whether alone or together—knowing I have guarded what is sacred: my peace.

Because at the end of the day, the caution tape isn’t meant to keep love out—it’s meant to keep my heart safe until love is ready to come home whole.