I said something in my own therapy today that left me reflecting for the rest of the day. I was discussing with my therapist what it means to want—the nuanced difference between wanting and receiving, of fully allowing yourself to go after what you want and creating congruency between desire and reality. The conversation then moved to deserving—what do I think I deserve?

Deserve is an interesting word. It’s intrinsically tied to our sense of self-worth—whether we believe we are worthy of goodness and reward in life, or if we see ourselves as somehow “bad” at the core, destined for pain and punishment.

When I put on my therapist hat, so much of this clicks for me. If we have trauma—whether physical, emotional, sexual, intergenerational, or cultural, especially as part of a marginalized population—we were often told, in some way, that we are not deserving of good treatment or love. If society or our families of origin could not accept us as we are, we grow up feeling that we do not truly deserve happiness. And we make life choices accordingly. We pick friends, romantic partners, even therapists, and surround ourselves with people we believe we deserve—people who, in some way, reflect what we’ve come to believe we’re worthy of.

My dad, a therapist himself, used to tell me, “Michele, in relationships, water seeks its own level.” I’m not sure I ever fully understood the complexity and profound understanding of trauma that this statement embodies. What he was expressing was that we attract and choose people who we feel match our worth. And so, people with significant trauma often form relationships that reflect those early wounds.

To be clear, no person or partner is perfect. We all have our flaws and blind spots, no matter how well-intentioned we are or how many years of therapy we’ve done. The nature of humanity is imperfection. But if we see our imperfections as deeply problematic, we end up in a fraught relationship with our own humanity. If being fully ourselves threatened our early attachment figures—or clashed with societal norms—we had no choice but to exile those parts of ourselves early on. And often, the part that was rejected was the most precious.

Sometimes, it can be hard to see the impact of years of deep therapy and introspection. It can feel like a never-ending struggle—constantly healing, constantly striving toward some imagined finish line where you’re finally “fixed,” no longer triggered, no longer in pain. But maybe one of the best ways to recognize your progress is to look at the relationships you now allow yourself to have. To notice the things you’re now able to take in that once felt too painful.

So if you’re choosing relationships now that, ten years ago, you wouldn’t have—or if you’ve allowed yourself to more fully love and express yourself with the people who truly care for you—maybe that’s the biggest sign of healing. Maybe progress isn’t marked by the absence of pain, but by the presence of profound joy.