The Art of Setting Boundaries

"When you communicate with someone and face a conflict of opinion, how do you resolve it?"

I’ve often chosen to run away from such moments. Not out of fear, but because I despise conflict. I crave peace—an unshaken calm where everyone gets along. But life doesn’t always offer that. The painful truth, one we all secretly know, is that harmony is fleeting.

In South Korea, there’s a saying: “Every group has a problem person, and if you can’t find them, it’s probably you.” How sharp, and yet, how accurate. This thought sometimes weighs on me, leaving me tangled in discomfort. I’m no poker face, either. People see through me; they notice when I dislike them almost instantly. With age, I’ve wondered if this transparency makes me childish, but how can I fight what’s rooted in over 30 years of being me?

So now, I try to set boundaries—delicate lines to protect myself. I don’t want to hurt anyone, even if I don’t enjoy their company. It’s not hatred. It’s self-preservation. I simply choose not to engage too deeply with those who cross my boundaries. Yet, I often fail. Foolishly, I let them cross the line again and again, forgetting the lessons I thought I’d learned. The truth is, people rarely change—including me.

And here lies the most painful truth of all: I love people. Even when they hurt me, I forgive so easily. How naïve. How… foolish. When I need to remember something important, I write it down. Sticky notes clutter my car, reminding me how to start it and what to check before driving. But how can I jot down a reminder to avoid those who wound me? “Be cautious. She may seem kind, but she’ll hurt you eventually.” Writing it down feels cruel. What if I’m wrong? What if they’ve changed?

But they haven’t—not yet. And I end up hurt again.

Growing older feels like collecting invisible scars. Each one stings, heals slowly, and leaves its mark. Over time, you build walls, solid and unyielding, to protect what’s left. Maybe that’s why age makes people stubborn—it’s not defiance but survival. Still, I’m not here to defend my stubbornness. I’m reflecting, nothing more.

Life is relentless, dragging us down to the depths and then flinging us high into joy, only to repeat the cycle. To survive this constant ebb and flow, we carve out our defenses. They solidify into rocks we lean on, but they can also weigh us down. How tragic.

I’ve always wanted to stay naive, but life doesn’t let me. Yesterday, I found myself arguing over something trivial—a fleeting, controversial topic. It was nothing, really. I could’ve just let it go, told a white lie, or nodded in agreement. But I didn’t. My stubbornness won, and now the air between us is awkward. Reflecting on it now, I see how foolish I was. This post is my promise to myself: no more confrontations over petty disagreements. I’ll try to respect differences, to let go of the need to be right. Perhaps this is what it means to grow up.

And when the day comes that none of this bothers me anymore—when I can finally let go of all these weights—I wonder if that will be the day I’ve truly lived enough.