There’s this idea people throw around about keeping your circle small.
I used to think it sounded cynical—closed-off, guarded, maybe even a little lonely. But during some of my hardest seasons, I learned that a small circle isn’t a sign of isolation. It’s an act of protection. It’s permission to breathe. And sometimes, it’s the only way to stay upright.
When you’re struggling—really struggling—your capacity shrinks. Not because you want it to, but because everything takes more energy: waking up, holding yourself together, pretending you’re okay when you’re not. Even answering a message can feel like another task on a list you never asked for.
And when your circle is too big, suddenly it’s not just your struggle anymore. It becomes a shared project, one you’re responsible for managing.
More people checking in.
More updates.
More explaining.
More emotional labour.
People mean well, and that’s the hardest part—because good intentions still create weight.
A small circle, on the other hand, creates space.
It’s fewer people asking for the daily status of your pain.
It’s fewer stories you need to retell.
It’s fewer “How are you really doing?” messages that require honesty you don’t always have the capacity to give.
And maybe most importantly, it’s fewer advice monsters.
You’ve likely met one.
That person who listens just long enough to relate it back to their own life.
Who hears your struggle but responds with their story.
Who confuses empathy with instruction, and connection with comparison.
Advice can be beautiful. But advice that’s really about the giver—advice rooted in their fears, their history, their coping mechanisms—can feel like a dismissal of your experience. Sometimes it lands as pressure. Sometimes it’s a directive you never asked for. And sometimes, if you’re already hurting, it’s enough to make you feel smaller rather than supported.
I remember expanding my circle once during a particularly heavy time. I let someone in who was close to me, someone I trusted. I thought widening that circle would help lighten the load. Instead, they turned the conversation into a mirror of their own experiences—what they would do, what they did, how they overcame something “similar.”
They weren’t unkind. They weren’t malicious. They simply weren’t able to hold what I was sharing.
And I left that conversation feeling worse than when it began.
That’s when I understood something I hadn’t before:
Not everyone has the capacity to sit with someone else’s pain without making it about themselves.
And that’s okay.
It just means they’re not part of the inner circle. Not for this season.
A small circle doesn’t mean pushing people away.
It doesn’t mean shutting down connection.
It doesn’t mean you don’t trust the people outside of it.
It simply means that in moments when you’re fragile, you get to choose the few who can hold that fragility without dropping it—or you. The people who listen without fixing. Who stay without crowding. Who ask without demanding. Who understand that sometimes the most supportive thing they can offer is presence, not direction.
As you heal, that circle can grow again.
Or it can stay exactly the size it needs to be.
Support isn’t measured by numbers; it’s measured by safety.
Keeping your circle small isn’t about shutting the world out.
It’s about letting the right people in.
And sometimes, that’s the bravest thing you can do.
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