The Emotional Contracts That Exhaust Us

 Written by: Jenny R. Horne, CLC, CSC - Mindset, Life Balance and Spiritual Coach

You lay awake at night replaying a conversation. You often say yes, when you really mean no. Each chime from your phone is another issue that only you can solve. You are everyone’s heartbeat monitor. You know their baseline. Even the slightest shift in tone or rhythm cannot sneak past you. And when there’s silence you know there’s something wrong. 

You are exhausted and the me-time on your calendar is scheduled, but the guilt you feel overshadows it. Somehow you became an expert in monitoring others while losing fluency in what you need. You’ve recognized something needs to change but you don’t know what. The body often tells us what it needs before the mind has the words.

We’re in our first coaching session together because sleep isn’t fixing your exhaustion. I ask you: “What drains you?” You sit before me answering practically. Your boss. The laundry. Dinner. Emails. The dog. The kids’ activities. Your aging parents’ needs. The volunteer commitment you no longer enjoy but still show up for.

Then almost as an afterthought, you say: “I’m just so busy. I even feel guilty for taking this time for myself.” Often the drain is not the task itself. It’s the emotional contract underneath it. The belief that your value lives in usefulness—goodness. Disappointing others feels more threatening than abandoning yourself.

In coaching, we call this binding agreements— the unconscious contracts we make with ourselves, another person, or a group that usually involve a trade.

For example:

If I meet everyone’s needs, I’ll be loved.

If I anticipate everyone’s needs, I won’t be rejected.

If I take care of my parents, they’ll accept me.

If I never disappoint anyone, I’ll avoid conflict.

Just like your fingerprint, your agreement is unique to you.

During my coaching training, one of my binding agreements surfaced. When our mentor demonstrated the technique, I saw myself. I volunteered to be coached next.

When my mother was living with stage 4 colon cancer my quiet contract was this:  If I sacrifice anything, she will live.  That agreement was with me and God.  After my mom’s initial diagnosis, I became one of her primary caregivers. I lived in New York with my then husband. We were amid fertility challenges. My mom lived and worked in Texas with her puppy, Chloe.

Accepting the caregiver call was easy. Mom cared for me as a child. In adulthood she was my best friend— my litmus test for any major decision including fashion as she worked in that industry for over 30 years.

I took notes during doctors’ appointments— her health stats, weight, and crucial numbers like CEA and liver enzymes became an Excel spreadsheet. I researched healing foods and herbs. I visually tracked how much she ate, what foods she could tolerate post chemo along with her emotions and energy levels.

I looked for ways to find the light in a very dark season. We took silly photos with chocolate mustaches and wore Snoopy shirts to chemo appointments, because he made us smile. I took two weeks off from work every month to be in Texas, caring for her, Chloe, her home and all the in-betweens.  The other two weeks were for my life, tracking what my maternal aunt recorded in my absence and researching treatments for my mom’s recovery.

Six months in, I woke up and did not know what literal state I was in: Texas or New York, let alone what month or year it was. I was living three lives: mine, hers and a caregiver.   Daughter got squeezed out of the mix.

Caring for my mother stretched beyond time and energy. In almost a year and a half: I gave up my candidacy for my dream job.  I got passed over at work for the career-making projects. And I lost my viable pregnancy.

 I was the heartbeat monitor for so much and yet my daughter’s heartbeat had stopped. I was vigilant about what I ate and followed my doctor’s suggestions around the right kind of exercise and rest. I took breaks, got pedicures and massages. I practiced yoga and guided meditation.

If I sacrifice, she will live. But she didn’t. And during the binding agreement exercise I released this rubber band ball of anger buried in my belly. It had started after my mom took her last breath. Sadness, I expected, but when anger rudely showed up on her deathbed, I clenched my fists and shook.

I could never explain that feeling until the moment I finally saw my contract, and I was ready to set it free. The fear of losing my mom seeded this bargain. These binding agreements are often born from the need for safety, protection or love. And some we inherit. They can help us survive or feel like we belong. No matter what gives birth to them, eventually they outlive their usefulness. When they stop delivering what they once promised, the body continues to carry them until we recognize what we have been holding—and the grip of that emotional pact finally loosens. 

I cried retracing each step through that dark season. But this time I did not lose. I found my drain—anger had replaced the fear of losing my mother. When I released that weight, a lightness arrived in my body. And now the only heart I monitor is my own.