The question:
"What would you tell your daughter if she came to you with this relationship?"
I opened my mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
Because I knew exactly what I'd tell her.
Run.
And I'd been staying for three years.
The Session That Broke Me Open
I'd been in therapy for six months, talking circles around the real issue.
Work stress. Family dynamics. Childhood wounds.
Never the relationship.
Because naming it meant dealing with it.
And dealing with it meant admitting I'd wasted three years on someone who was slowly eroding my sense of self.
My therapist let me avoid it.
For weeks.
Then one session:
"Tell me about your relationship."
I did the thing I always did. The performance.
"It's complicated. He's going through a lot. We have good moments. Nobody's perfect. Love is work, right?"
She waited.
In that therapist way where silence becomes unbearable and you fill it with truth.
"He yells at me when he's stressed. Tells me I'm too sensitive. Checks my phone. Gets angry if I go out with friends. Makes me feel crazy for things that upset me."
Still, she waited.
"But he apologizes after. And he had a rough childhood. And when it's good, it's really good."
Then she asked it:
"If your daughter—or your younger sister, or your best friend—came to you and described this relationship, what would you tell her?"
The Answer I Couldn't Say Out Loud
In my head, immediately:
I'd tell her to leave.
I'd tell her he's manipulating her.
I'd tell her the apologies don't matter if the behavior doesn't change.
I'd tell her "when it's good" doesn't erase "when it's bad."
I'd tell her she deserves better.
I'd tell her RUN.
Out loud:
"I... I'd tell her..."
And I burst into tears.
Because I'd just realized I'd been giving myself advice I wouldn't give anyone I loved.
I'd been accepting treatment I'd call abusive if it were happening to someone else.
And I'd convinced myself that was love.
Why We Can See It for Others But Not Ourselves
Distance creates clarity.
When it's someone else's life, you see it objectively.
Red flags are obvious. Patterns are clear. Solutions are simple.
But when it's YOUR life:
You're in it. Swimming in it. Drowning in it.
You have context. History. Hope. Investment. Love.
You have excuses.
"He had a rough childhood."
So do lots of people. They don't yell at their partners.
"He's stressed about work."
Stress doesn't justify abuse.
"When it's good, it's really good."
Poison tastes sweet sometimes. Still kills you.
You make allowances for people you love.
That's not wrong.
But somewhere along the way, allowances became accepting the unacceptable.
And I'd lost the ability to see the difference.
What Changed After That Session
I couldn't unhear the question.
Every time he yelled, I heard it:
"What would you tell your daughter?"
Every time he checked my phone:
"What would you tell your daughter?"
Every time I apologized for his behavior:
"What would you tell your daughter?"
And the answer was always the same.
Leave.
It took me three more months.
Not because I didn't know. I knew from that moment.
But knowing and doing are different countries.
I had to:
- Stop making excuses
- Stop hoping he'd change
- Stop believing I could love him into being different
- Stop betraying myself
The Question You Should Ask Yourself
Right now. About any situation you're stuck in.
If someone you loved came to you with your exact life, what would you tell them?
About your job that drains you.
About the friend who only calls when they need something.
About the family member who guilts you constantly.
About the relationship that makes you question your sanity.
What would you tell them?
Not what you tell yourself to make it okay.
What you'd tell someone you actually wanted to protect.
That's your answer.
The one you already know.
The one you've been avoiding.
The Hard Truth
We give better advice to strangers than to ourselves.
We defend ourselves to ourselves in ways we'd never accept from someone else.
We are the most forgiving toward our own bad decisions.
And the harshest toward our own needs.
We'd tell a friend: "You deserve better."
We tell ourselves: "I'm being dramatic."
We'd tell a friend: "That's abusive."
We tell ourselves: "I'm too sensitive."
We'd tell a friend: "Leave."
We tell ourselves: "But I love them."
Here's what I learned:
Love isn't enough when it costs you yourself.
And if you wouldn't want it for someone you love, you shouldn't accept it for yourself.
You deserve your own protection.
Not just your loyalty.
One Year Later
I left six months after that therapy session.
Best decision I ever made.
Not because it was easy. It wasn't.
Not because I didn't doubt myself. I did.
But because I finally treated myself like someone worth protecting.
Now when I make decisions, I ask:
"What would I tell someone I love if they were in this situation?"
And then I give myself that advice.
It's the simplest form of self-love:
Treating yourself at least as well as you'd treat a stranger.
At least as well as you'd treat someone you cared about.
At minimum, as well as you'd treat someone you didn't want to see hurt.
Your Turn
Think about whatever situation is weighing on you right now.
The relationship. The job. The friendship. The family dynamic.
Imagine someone you love deeply came to you and described it.
Word for word, exactly as it is.
What would you tell them?
That's your truth.
The one you've been trying not to hear.
Will you take your own advice?
Or will you keep giving yourself excuses you'd never accept from someone else?
The question my therapist asked changed my life.
Not because I didn't know the answer.
But because I finally stopped pretending I didn't.
About 4Angles: We help you see your life with the clarity you'd have for someone else's. Because you deserve your own wisdom, not just your excuses.
Last updated: October 31, 2025