Founder and Coach
I have always known how to fight.
I’ve never been someone who was particularly afraid of confrontation.
I can challenge someone.
I can argue my position. I can push back when something feels wrong.
For a long time, I believed that meant I knew how to stand up for myself.
But lately, I’ve been recognizing a much more subtle distinction:
Defending yourself is not the same thing as advocating for yourself.
They can look remarkably similar from the outside.
Both might involve confrontation.
Both might require saying no.
Both might mean challenging someone else’s version of events.
Both can require tremendous courage.
But internally, they come from very different places.
And strangely enough, one of the places I’ve learned the most about that difference is in court.
When I think about the times in my life when I was defending myself, there was usually something happening underneath the confrontation.
I wanted to be seen.
I wanted someone to understand what happened.
I wanted them to recognize that I had been treated unfairly.
I wanted them to acknowledge my intentions, my experience, or my truth.
In other words, even while I was fighting, I was still making an appeal.
Please see me.
That realization has been profound.
Because a person can appear incredibly powerful while defending themselves and still have given someone else authority over their experience.
You can yell.
You can argue.
You can produce receipts.
You can explain yourself beautifully.
You can win the argument.
And underneath all of it can still be the belief:
I need you to understand what happened before I can feel settled in what I know.
That is what makes defense so exhausting.
The other person is still occupying the position of witness.
Learning to advocate for myself in court has required something very different from me.
Court doesn’t simply ask you to feel strongly about your position.
You have to represent it.
What happened?
What are the relevant facts?
What is your position?
What supports that position?
What are you asking for?
What action are you prepared to take?
That process has unexpectedly taught me something much larger about self-advocacy.
Advocacy begins when I become the witness to my own experience.
I don’t need the opposing party to agree with my account before I can stand behind it.
And even more importantly, I don’t need a judge to validate my internal reality before I am allowed to know what I experienced.
Of course, a judge’s decision matters in a legal case. External outcomes have real consequences.
But there is a tremendous difference between someone having authority over an outcome and giving them authority over you.
That distinction is everything.
When I defend myself, I am often asking someone else to recognize my truth.
When I advocate for myself, I recognize it first.
I become the witness.
From there, I can decide what needs to happen.
Maybe I speak.
Maybe I leave.
Maybe I establish a boundary.
Maybe I document what happened.
Maybe I pursue something legally.
Maybe I simply decide that I will no longer participate in a particular dynamic.
The action can change.
The authority doesn’t.
This is why advocacy can actually be quieter than defense while being infinitely more powerful.
There is less explaining.
Less convincing.
Less chasing.
Less trying to manufacture the moment when another person finally says:
“You’re right. I see it now.”
Because I no longer require that moment in order to move forward.
This distinction has also changed the way I think about healing.
We often talk about healing as though becoming healthier means becoming less confrontational, less forceful, or less willing to fight.
I don’t necessarily believe that.
For those of us who learned to survive by fighting, the answer isn’t always to put down the sword.
Sometimes the deeper work is discovering who is holding it.
There is a difference between the wounded part of me grabbing the sword because she desperately needs someone to acknowledge what happened and the integrated adult picking it up because something I value requires protection.
One is fighting for recognition.
The other is exercising authority.
The first can be incredibly destabilizing because my sense of resolution depends upon someone else’s response.
The second is grounding because I have already witnessed myself.
This may be one of the hardest parts of genuine self-advocacy:
Other people are allowed to disagree with you.
They can misunderstand you.
They can tell a completely different story.
They can refuse accountability.
They can think your boundary is unreasonable.
They can even have power over a particular external outcome.
Self-authority does not magically eliminate those realities.
It does something more important.
It stops making your relationship with yourself contingent upon them.
You no longer need to abandon what you know simply because someone else refuses to acknowledge it.
And you don’t have to spend the rest of your life prosecuting your case to everyone who disagrees.
You can listen.
You can evaluate new information.
You can change your mind when appropriate.
But ultimately, you remain responsible for determining what you believe, what you need, what you permit, and what you do next.
That is advocacy.
Maybe that is the simplest way I can describe the shift.
Defending myself was often:
See me.
Advocating for myself is:
I see me.
Defending:
Believe me.
Advocating:
I believe myself enough to examine my experience honestly and act accordingly.
Defending:
Recognize my truth.
Advocating:
I recognize my truth, and now I will represent it.
That’s a very different kind of power.
And for someone like me—someone who has never particularly struggled with the willingness to fight—that distinction has been transformative.
My work isn’t necessarily learning how to fight less.
It’s learning to fight from a different place.
Not from the wound desperately seeking a witness.
But from the authority of having become one.
Because ultimately, self-advocacy begins long before we speak up to anyone else.
It begins the moment we stop asking someone else for permission to believe ourselves.
If you’ve spent years defending, explaining, proving, or fighting to finally be understood,
there may be another level of your work waiting for you.
Not learning how to become tougher.
Learning how to become your own witness.
If you’ve spent years explaining yourself, defending your choices, or trying to get other people to understand your experience, it may be time for a different kind of work.
Coaching can help you strengthen self-trust, establish healthier boundaries, and learn to advocate for yourself without needing someone else’s validation first.
You don’t have to become tougher. You can learn to become your own witness.