“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” ~Carl Rogers
There is a part of me that really, really loves vitamins.
Like…a lot.
I have always been endlessly fascinated by health, which means I can spend a wildly unreasonable amount of time talking about inflammation, mitochondria, blood sugar, nervous systems, magnesium, and all the other things that make most people’s eyes glaze over while my little heart lights right up.
So the vitamin-loving part is real.
Very me.
And, as I recently discovered while sitting beside my swollen-faced fiancé in urgent care, capable of going a little too far.
Because sometimes something authentic can tip sideways into a persona.
And when it comes to the health of the people I love, that persona for me is the Hero.
She is the over-helpful, overfunctioning, deeply sincere part who is absolutely not trying to control anything or anyone. (Wink, wink.)
She first clocked in when I was a teenager and found out that my mom was an alcoholic.
The news came as a complete shock. My mom had hidden her drinking so well that I had no idea what was happening beneath the surface.
So my very concerned and loving dad took me to see a therapist, who showed me the stages of alcoholism, explained that the final stage was death, and told me my mom was dangerously close to it.
I left that day sobbing, terrified she was going to die.
And because I did not know how to be with that fear, some part of me made a decision:
I would keep her alive.
Without realizing it, I appointed myself Protector-in-Chief—not only of my mom, but eventually of nearly everyone I loved.
Add in being the oldest child, several other people in my life struggling with addiction, and my natural talent for second-mom-ing anyone who would allow it, and boom:
Hero Mode, activated.
After years of Al-Anon and therapy, I understood this pattern intellectually.
But it wasn’t until I began listening to my body and allowing myself to feel the fear beneath the pattern that my Hero became much quieter.
So when a recent health scare landed my fiancé, Zach, in the ER—and my inner Hero suddenly came roaring back—I was completely caught off guard.
Ultimately, the tests showed that Zach was in tip-top shape and the whole thing had been a false alarm.
My nervous system, however, did not get that follow-up memo.
Afterward, I became a little more focused on Zach’s health.
A little more “helpful.”
And before long, I was giving unsolicited advice and reminders and offering the kind of support that was beginning to look suspiciously like all-out control.
To be fair, I had asked Zach whether he wanted that “support.”
He did say yes.
But I took that yes and ran with it, formally promoting myself to the role of Knowing What’s Best for Him.
Which is how, a couple of months later, on one very ordinary Sunday, I found myself handing Zach vitamins he had not asked for.
And before I could explain my very sound and deeply researched rationale—as a complete non-medical professional—he gobbled them down without thinking twice.
Thirty minutes later, his face had morphed into a puffy cartoon version of itself, and we were speeding toward urgent care while I quietly spiraled over the possibility that, in my desperate attempt to keep my beloved alive forever, I had accidentally taken him out myself.
An hour later, as we waited to see whether the Benadryl and steroids would stop the reaction, Zach—head in his hands, eyes basically swollen shut—looked up at me and began singing a little song he had made up on the spot:
“The hero-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo has gone too far…”
And despite the very real crisis we were still in, I burst out laughing.
There he was, possibly having a vitamin-induced allergic reaction, serenading me with a custom ballad about my own overfunctioning.
And somehow, instead of turning the whole experience into an all-out attack on myself, I got to laugh.
Eventually, that laughter loosened something just enough for me to see what was actually happening.
On the surface, I had been trying to help Zach. Underneath, I had gone somewhere much older.
Back to being a teenager.
Back to loving someone and feeling terrified that I might lose them.
Back to thinking I needed to save someone because I didn’t know what else to do with the fear.
Only this time, Zach didn’t need saving.
Just like, it turns out, neither did my beautiful momma way back when.
(She has now been sober for more than fifteen years, by the way—something I am very happy to report was entirely of her own doing.)
As I sat beside Zach that day, I began to see who actually needed my attention. And it wasn’t him or his supplement protocol. It was my inner Hero—the scared younger part of me who still believed it was her job to keep everyone healthy and alive.
She was the one who needed me to see her. To hold her. And, by God, even to laugh with her.
Not so she would disappear forever. But so I could notice when she arrived, feel the fear beneath her urgency, and choose whether I actually wanted to act on it or not.
So right there in urgent care, I turned inward toward this younger part of myself and breathed.
I let myself feel what she had been protecting me from: the ripping, pukey sensation in my gut that eventually softened into heaviness and sadness.
Sadness for the girl who believed love meant managing, watching, preventing, and fixing.
Sadness because beneath all that effort, that girl wasn’t really saying, “Let me help.”
She was saying:
Please don’t leave.
Please don’t die.
Please don’t make me feel how scared I am.
And when I could finally hear that, the vitamins, reminders, and perfectly reasonable suggestions began to look like what they really were: Fear in a very convincing Hero costume.
Zach is fine, by the way. The Benadryl-and-steroid cocktail did the trick.
And the irony of the whole thing?
Just as we were preparing to leave after our three-hour urgent-care adventure, I remembered one potentially important detail.
Immediately before the reaction, Zach had inhaled a rather heroic amount of mold from an old container.
Which meant the reaction may not have had anything to do with the vitamins.
And while the part of me that would very much like to be declared innocent loves this possibility, there is something strangely perfect about not knowing.
At this point, we still don’t know exactly what caused the reaction. We won’t unless Zach decides to pursue allergy testing.
And whether he does?
I have absolutely no idea.
Because, at least for today, I have handed the healthcare reins fully back to him.
And I will (probably) not be following up.
About Sarah Schweppe
Sarah Schweppe is a master’s-level relationship coach who helps individuals and couples break free from old patterns so they can feel more deeply connected to themselves and each other. Explore what’s keeping your patterns in place in Sarah’s free video mini-series: Why You Keep Repeating the Same Relationship Patterns. Find Sarah on Instagram: @sarah.schweppe
