One of the things I occasionally share with clients is something that usually surprises them. I tell them I'm what I call a recovered yeller. I don't share that story because I think therapy should be about me. I share it because I think it's important for clients to know there is nothing I would ask them to do that I haven't been willing to wrestle with myself. If I'm asking someone to learn a new way of responding, it's because I believe people can change, not only from what I've witnessed professionally, but because I've experienced it personally.
I grew up in a home where yelling was one of the primary ways conflict was handled. As a child, it felt intimidating, unpredictable, and scary. Looking back now as a therapist, I understand those experiences differently than I did then. I don't believe yelling came from a lack of love. I believe it came from a lack of regulation. When emotions became overwhelming, the quickest way to regain control of the situation was to become louder. And it worked. The room became quiet. People complied. The tension settled, at least temporarily.
The problem was that I learned the same strategy.
One of the most humbling realizations of my adult life was recognizing that even though I hated being yelled at as a child, I found myself using the very behavior that had frightened me. Not because I wanted to hurt the people I loved, but because somewhere along the way my nervous system had learned that when emotions became big, voices became bigger. It had become my default response, even though it never left me feeling proud of myself afterward.
As my children grew and my marriage deepened, I began noticing something I could no longer ignore. I wasn't getting what I actually wanted during those moments. I wanted to feel heard. I wanted my feelings to matter. I wanted someone to understand my perspective. But the way I was expressing those needs was making it almost impossible for the people I loved to hear them. Instead of inviting connection, I was creating fear, defensiveness, and distance. The louder I became, the less likely I was to receive the very thing I had been longing for.
That realization changed everything for me because it forced me to ask a difficult question. Even if this behavior makes perfect sense given where I learned it, do I want to keep bringing it into the relationships that matter most to me?
For me, the answer was no.
That didn't mean change happened overnight. It required paying attention to what was happening inside me before my voice ever changed. I had to notice what my body felt like when I became overwhelmed. I had to recognize that my urge to become louder was usually a sign that I was becoming emotionally flooded, not that my point had suddenly become more important. I had to learn that my feelings deserved to be expressed, but not in ways that intimidated, invalidated, or overpowered the people I loved.
One of the most freeing lessons I learned was separating explanation from permission. My childhood explained why yelling felt familiar. It explained why my nervous system reached for it automatically. But understanding where a behavior comes from is different from deciding whether I want to continue living it. My history deserved compassion. It did not remove my responsibility for the impact I was having on the people around me.
That distinction gave me hope rather than shame. If I had learned this way of responding, perhaps I could learn a different one. Over time, that's exactly what happened. I still experience frustration. I still become disappointed. I still have moments when I feel misunderstood or emotionally activated. The difference is that I no longer believe those feelings have to be expressed through intimidation in order to matter. I've learned that the strongest voice in the room isn't necessarily the loudest one. Often it's the one that remains grounded enough to say something difficult without making someone else feel unsafe.
This is one of the reasons I have so much hope for the people who sit across from me. I hear clients say, "This is just how I am," or, "I've always reacted this way," or, "It's too ingrained to change." I understand why they believe that because our protective behaviors become deeply wired through repetition. They become our nervous system's default settings. But default settings are not life sentences. They can be understood. They can be interrupted. And with enough awareness and practice, they can be changed.
I've watched people stop yelling. I've watched people stop shutting down. I've watched people learn to set boundaries after a lifetime of people pleasing. I've watched partners learn to stay present during conflict instead of becoming defensive or withdrawing. None of those changes happened because someone became an entirely different person. They happened because someone became more aware of the ways they had learned to survive and chose, little by little, to respond differently.
I think one of the most hopeful truths about being human is that we are not forever bound to the versions of ourselves that learned how to survive. The behaviors that protected us at one point in our lives may no longer serve the relationships we're trying to build today. Recognizing that isn't about blaming ourselves for what we learned. It's about realizing we have the opportunity to choose what we continue to carry forward.
I tell my clients I'm a recovered yeller because I want them to know something I believe with all my heart. There is nothing I ask of them that I don't believe is possible. I've seen change in my own life, and I've had the privilege of watching it happen in theirs. That doesn't mean the work is easy, but it does mean the work is worth it. And sometimes the greatest gift we can give our partners, our children, and ourselves is becoming the person we never had modeled for us.
