Imagine you're standing on a path in front of a vast landscape

Sarah's mum loved her. She truly did. She only wanted the best for her, but she had her own problems. Sarah's dad was distant, and her mum raised the family on her own.

When Sarah's mum was calm, she felt safe. She listened and she was supportive.

However, she was also inconsistent. And when she was stressed, her emotions became everyone else's problem.

One day, Sarah had fallen out with her friends at school, and her teacher gave her detention for not paying attention in class. Sarah's mum had been calm all week, she wanted to get home and tell her all about it.

However, when she got home the first words out of her mum's mouth were "Where have you been?" Sarah's heart dropped. She wanted to run away to her room. Forget the world exists. She was good at that. But she knew that would make her mum even angrier.

Sarah was feeling bad enough already. She didn't need her mum's anger on top of everything else.

She scanned her mum's face. She couldn't see a way of calming her down. Her mum's emotions felt smothering. She already had enough of her own to deal with, how was she meant to manage her mum's as well?

This was the story of Sarah's childhood. Not abuse, not neglect. There was just no space for her own emotions. Her needs were secondary to other people's. And other people could swallow her whole with their chaos and needs. She learnt that being close to others meant there was no space left for herself.

Sometimes she longed for the days her mum would be available. Sometimes she just wished she was free from her demands.

Sarah's mountain is her belief that she doesn't matter enough. That her needs don't count when they come into contact with another person.

Closeness triggers this mountain, because closeness has always meant someone else's emotions have the power to overwhelm her. As an adult this extended to being told she isn't a good enough partner. That she shuts down. Doesn't communicate her own needs. And doesn't care enough about the needs of others.

Sometimes she goes through the motions of caring. But she's not fully present, she can't be. She learnt the emotions of others are too overwhelming to look at.

But partners feel that distance. They tell her she's not doing well enough at relationships. And this creates a new mountain right next door: inadequacy, and feeling that she is fundamentally deficient. Broken in some way others aren't.

And each past relationship adds its own mountains. The times she failed to meet her partner's needs. The moments she shut down when they needed her. The fights she couldn't resolve. The love she couldn't sustain. The accumulating evidence that she is the problem.

She has come to see it as inevitable. She cannot sustain relationships. She will never be able to meet their expectations. Not because she hasn't tried—she has. But because trying wasn't enough, and even in the moments she managed, she sacrificed and lost herself.

Sarah's first mountain feels painful to even think about. And thinking about it doesn't do any good anyway. So all thoughts about mattering enough get diverted before they arrive.

It's actually easier for her to think about her second mountain: not being adequate. Because it doesn't carry the same level of pain. And it's something she can work on. Something she can imagine getting better at. She can build structures around this mountain. Rules to follow. Strategies to deploy. It's a perfect distraction from her mattering.

But some days, even that mountain hurts too much. Like the days she hurts her partner more than she can bear. That thought takes her too close to her energy limit.

So this inadequacy mountain has its own bypass too. A strategy where she tells herself she didn't want the relationship anyway. That way if they break up, it's not a big deal. They weren't the right person. If they break up it's not because of her inadequacy—it was because she didn't love them enough. Or because they were too needy. Or too demanding.

Sarah had the perfect day with her partner of six months. She even began thinking maybe she does love this one enough. Maybe she can do this. Maybe this time will be different.

But on the drive home the next morning, the doubts creep in. Is he ambitious enough? Could he support a family? Why didn't he go for that promotion? Her mind drifts back to her ex. He had his flaws, but at least he had a good job.

Later that day her partner sends her a message. He says he loves her.

"Oh no," she says to herself. She can't handle this right now. She can feel his expectations growing. She hasn't even been sure she wants to be with him today, and now this.

So she turns her phone off. Not to hurt him—to protect him. She aims to manufacture the story that she's just busy. Maybe that will buy her some time. Maybe when she's calmer she will find the energy to reply.

The perfect day was a genuine valley. She felt happy, at peace. She was herself, she felt loved and it was easy.

But as soon as she left, her mountains were triggered. The fear of the inevitable breakup caused by her inadequacy. The fear that if she tried to fight the inadequacy she would lose herself suppressing her own needs to keep him happy. Just like with her mum. It triggered the mountain of not mattering enough to have her needs heard. Not being allowed the space to exist for herself.

These mountains took her up to her energy limit. She lost the ability to see clearly, to question her own logic. She seemed calm, logical, but that was just the bypasses she built. She could still feel the stress taking over underneath. She just couldn't place it correctly.

The bypass told her to blame her partner. It highlighted the reasons he caused stress. The way the relationship caused stress. Because those thoughts were easier, they didn't trigger the mountains. They actually dampened them.

Her thoughts about not wanting the relationship calmed her too. They lowered the feeling of stress. Kept her safely below her energy limit.

When he messaged he sent her right back up to the limit, so she didn't have any spare energy to carefully plan a response. That needed nuance. She couldn't say she loved him too—that would make it all worse. She couldn't fob him off—he'd be able to tell and would start sending more emotional messages. The last thing she could cope with right now.

So she did what she does best. Avoided.

Dylan's parents never had time for him. His brother had a disability, he was louder and more demanding. So Dylan was often overlooked. Sometimes he just faded into the background.

He slowly learnt that he could get attention when he was causing trouble. When he shouted, yes he got in trouble, his parents were angry. But at least they remembered he existed. He could feel his impact on the world. His brother even got told not to wind him up sometimes. He got to play on the console, he got some prioritisation. For once.

It was his little glimpse of what love felt like. A glimpse of what it means to feel important.

Dylan's mountain is the belief that he doesn't matter. That he's invisible. That without forcing his way into someone's attention, he will simply fade away. Be forgotten.

When he is in a relationship he exists. He feels ok. Well, when has attention. But every time they choose something else—friends, work, their phone—it sends him that old message. You're not enough to hold their attention. You never were.

He monitors constantly. For the proof he matters. He needs to know he still exists in their mind.

His partners feel this intensity. They call him jealous. Controlling. Too much. This creates his second mountain. That he's a bad person.

He knows sometimes his behaviour isn't right. He can see it. But he can't stop. When his mountain is triggered he loses the ability to think rationally. He just needs to get down the mountain. And at least when he is behaving badly people know he exists.

Dylan builds structures to make sure he's never invisible again.

As a child he learnt bad behaviour got him the attention he needed.

As an adult, his structures got more sophisticated. The monitoring. The tracking his partners. Who they are with, when they will be home. Not necessarily because he doesn't trust them, but because he needs to know he is still on their mind. That he's not been forgotten.

And when panic rises, he's learnt that accusations work better than tip toeing. Accusations don't get brushed off, they get heard. Asking nicely risks a no, which would be the proof he doesn't matter enough.

And when the second mountain gets too loud. When he feels like a bad person, he has a bypass for that one too. That she made him do it. That if she just prioritised him more he wouldn't have to be like this. If she cared she wouldn't make him feel forgotten.

If he faced the reality of what he was doing... well he can't. That thought is way above his energy limit. It's not a thought he can bear.

Dylan's partner is out at the pub with her friends. She told him she'd be back around ten.

At first he's fine. He watches TV. Makes some food. But by eight, the thoughts start. She's having fun. Laughing. Probably talking about him. About how he shouted yesterday. About how she's thinking of leaving.

He can picture it now. Someone's come over to their table. He's hitting on her. And she's weighing up her options. She won't be coming home tonight. Why would she stay with him?

Then he remembers. The new guy at work. She said his jokes were funny. It drove him mad at the time. He's probably there.

The thoughts are getting deafening. He tries to calm himself. To think rationally. But it's not working. He can feel the panic taking over. It's getting unbearable. He can't stay in this state. He has to do something. Anything to stop this feeling.

He tells himself, if she cared about him she wouldn't want him to feel like this. She shouldn't be making him feel like this.

So he picks up his phone.

"How dare you go out and flirt with him. Do you not care about me? You need to come home right now. Or I don't know what I will do."

Over time, his landscape becomes manageable. His life gets a little easier. She knows what he can't cope with. She's learned to prioritise him. Not trigger him so much.

He knows the truth deep down. That she's just learned to walk on eggshells.

But that thought is a mountain of its own. He can't go there. God knows where following that thought would lead.

Her landscape is full of new mountains now. New rules. "I can't see my friends." "I can't stand up for myself." "I can't think about my own needs."

He feels calmer. But she feels trapped.

Harriet's parents loved her. They were proud of her. But they didn't know how to meet her as the person she was. As a whole, beautifully complex person.

When she was bullied, they didn't know what to say. When she fell over they just passed a plaster. When she drew a picture they left it to get crumpled.

But they were always there for her achievements. Her achievements got their attention. Their love. When she came top of the class their eyes lit up. When she won the spelling competition they told everyone. When she got her poem published they took her out for the day.

She learned that worth wasn't something she had. It was something she earned.

Harriet's mountain is the belief that without achievement, she is nothing. That her worth isn't inherent—it's earned. And it has to be earned again every single day.

The mountain is triggered whenever she's not achieving. Weekends feel dangerous, holidays pointless. Relationships are secondary. When she's not succeeding the emptiness starts creeping back in.

So there's always the next project, the next goal, the next thing to prove she has the right to exist.

Harriet needs to make sure her worth is always visible. So she builds structures to ensure this happens.

She documents everything. Every contribution. Every success. Every time she went above and beyond. Not because she's arrogant—because that's what justifies the space she takes up.

She steers conversations towards her achievements. Finds ways to mention the project she led. The problem she solved. The praise she received.

But when someone else is succeeding it doesn't feel like their win. It feels like her loss. Like what's the point of her existence now? So she has a bypass for that too.

She tells herself they got lucky. They played politics. They took the easy projects. The system is unfair. The metrics were wrong. Because the alternative—that she's not special anymore—is too much to look at.

Harriet's team just finished a challenging project. Everyone's been working hard for months. She's proud of what the team has achieved. Her contribution was the most important, of course. But everyone did well.

Her manager asks a colleague to present the results at a stakeholder meeting. It should have been her. She can feel it immediately. The injustice.

In the meeting, she watches her colleague explain one of her ideas. He doesn't mention her name. She watches the faces in the room light up. They're impressed. The rage builds inside her.

She thinks I did that. And he's getting the credit. She knows it will look desperate. Petty, even. She doesn't want to say it. But the mountain is getting taller. She can't help it, it slips out. "I actually did that part"

She feels embarrassed. But she had to. She had to get her worth on the record.

Later that year someone new joins the team. And they keep getting better results than Harriet.

At first she thought it was luck. But it keeps happening. She thinks she's worked it out though. They're cheating the system. Picking the easiest projects. No one else can see it though. People keep complimenting them, like they are great.

Harriet feels that old structure to achieve kicking in, full force.

But it doesn't work like it used to. She can't prove achievement with exam scores. Workplace politics are a different matter. She believes the metrics are being manipulated, and it's just not right.

Later that day she watches them making jokes. Everyone is laughing. She thinks why can't they see through them, they are all being played.

The old structure kicks in—achieve more, work harder. But it's not working. She can't outperform them. The emptiness is getting louder.

So a new bypass starts forming. If she can't build her worth up, maybe she can bring theirs down. She starts noticing their mistakes. Mentioning them to colleagues. Just observations.

She tells herself she's just telling the truth. But underneath, she knows what she's doing. And she can't stop.