Holding Everything Together - The Ways We Learn to Care.

How our earliest experiences of care can shape the way we lead, create, and relate - and what becomes possible when we begin to understand and reimagine them.

When Care Stops Making Sense.

Care is one of those concepts that feels immediately familiar - almost too familiar to question. It’s something we assume we understand without needing to define it. We speak about it easily - caring for others, caring about our work, self-care, taking care of things that matter. It sits quietly underneath many of the values we hold, both personally and professionally. We care about our work. We care about people. We care about doing things well. And yet, despite how often we use the word, it’s surprisingly rare that we pause to consider what it actually means in practice, or how our understanding of it has been shaped over time.

The more I’ve spent time reflecting on it recently, the more I’ve realised how complex, shaped, and at times contradictory our relationship with care actually is. It is something we learn, often long before we have the language to describe it. It is shaped through early experiences, through relationships, through environments where care is either consistently present, inconsistently given, or quietly entangled with expectation. And because of this, what we come to recognise as care is not just about support or nurture - it is about interpretation. It is about what felt safe, what felt required, and what we learned to do in response. It is something we absorb, interpret, internalise, and recreate - often without realising we are doing so.

Over the past year, particularly through therapy and through some of the broader personal life shifts I’ve been navigating, I’ve found myself returning to a question that feels both simple and surprisingly difficult to answer:

What does care actually mean to me?

Not in theory. Not in the way I might describe it in a workshop or a leadership session. But in practice - in how I relate to myself, to others, to my work, and to the spaces I move through. And what I’ve been noticing is that much of my relationship with care was not consciously chosen. It was inherited.

The Care We Learn Before We Understand It.

If we look closely, our earliest experiences of care rarely come with explanation. They come through feeling. Through repetition. Through subtle patterns that shape how safe, supported, or responsible we learn to be. For many of us, our relationship with care begins in the context of maternal or caregiving figures - not only through what was provided, but through how it was provided. Whether care felt consistent or unpredictable. Whether it was freely given or conditional. Whether it created space, or whether it came with expectation, responsibility, or emotional weight.

These early relational environments form what developmental psychology would describe as internal working models - templates for how we understand connection, support, and safety. Attachment theory, first developed by John Bowlby and later expanded by Mary Ainsworth, suggests that these early caregiving environments shape how we experience safety, support, and connection throughout our lives. And while we might intellectually recognise that our lives have moved far beyond those early environments, the patterns themselves often continue to operate quietly in the background. We see it in how we respond to stress. In how comfortable we feel asking for help. In how quickly we step in to take responsibility for others. In how we interpret independence - as freedom, or as necessity.

What I’ve been beginning to understand, particularly through therapy over the past year, is how deeply those early environments continue to influence how I relate to care now. Not in an obvious or linear way, but in patterns that repeat across different areas of life. For me, one of the patterns I’ve been exploring is a tendency to hold things together. The tendency to anticipate what is needed before it is asked. The instinct to step in, to organise, to stabilise. The quiet assumption that if something needs to be held, it is likely mine to hold. I’ve noticed this most clearly in the moments where I’m already overwhelmed, but still instinctively saying “it’s fine” - not because it is, but because part of me has already decided it’s mine to carry.

It’s a pattern that, on the surface, looks like competence. These behaviours are often interpreted as strengths. It’s often rewarded. It’s often reinforced in leadership contexts. They align closely with how we tend to define capability, particularly in professional contexts. Being reliable. Being responsive. Being able to manage complexity without it becoming visible. And in many ways, they are strengths. But what I’ve been noticing is that they are also adaptations. Responses that were learned in earlier environments, where being attuned and responsible was not just helpful, but necessary.

And because of that, they come with an underlying orientation towards care that is not always balanced. An orientation where care is something I give, manage, and maintain - but not always something I fully allow myself to receive. A learned relationship with care that quietly equates support with responsibility, and safety with control.

The Subtle Shift From Care to Control.

There is a particular nuance here that I hadn’t fully recognised until recently, which is how easily care can become intertwined with control. Not in an overt or intentional way, but in a quieter, more structural sense. When care is linked to responsibility, and responsibility is linked to safety, there is a natural tendency to try to stay ahead of things. To anticipate rather than respond. To manage rather than allow.

In my own experience, this has often shown up as a kind of internal pressure to keep things coherent. To ensure that nothing is dropped, that everything continues to function, that any potential disruption is addressed before it fully emerges. And while this creates a sense of stability, it also creates a limit. Because it leaves very little room for uncertainty, and even less room for shared responsibility.

This is where something begins to feel unsustainable, even if it is not immediately visible. Because care, when it is held in this way, becomes something that requires constant effort. It is something that needs to be maintained, rather than something that can be experienced more fluidly. And over time, that creates a quiet form of depletion - not because care itself is draining, but because of how it is being carried.

The Quiet Translation Into Adulthood.

What I’ve found particularly interesting is how seamlessly these early patterns translate into adult life - not just in personal relationships, but in professional contexts as well.

Care becomes something we do.

We take care of teams.

We take care of projects.

We take care of relationships.

We take care of outcomes.

And in many ways, this is part of what makes us effective. The ability to anticipate needs, to create stability, to support others - these are essential leadership qualities. They are what allow environments to function, and in many cases, to thrive. But there is often an imbalance that sits underneath this. Because while we are actively giving care, we are not always equally able to receive it. We might find it difficult to:

- ask for support before things become overwhelming

- share uncertainty without feeling like we are losing credibility

- allow others to hold responsibility alongside us

- recognise our own limits without immediately pushing past them

And over time, this creates a pattern that feels sustainable - until it isn’t. Because care that flows in only one direction eventually becomes depletion.

Care, Creativity, and the Idea of Abundance.

One of the more unexpected places this has shown up for me is in my relationship with creativity. When I think about care purely in relational terms, it’s relatively easy to identify patterns. But when I extend that lens to the way I relate to my work, my ideas, and the things I’m building, a different layer becomes visible.

What does it mean to care for a project?

To nurture something that is still forming?

To allow it to develop at its own pace, rather than forcing it into clarity too quickly?

There is a strong parallel here with how we relate to growth more broadly. In many professional environments, we are encouraged to move quickly from idea to execution, from uncertainty to definition. There is an underlying assumption that progress should be efficient, structured, and visible. But if we look at how creative processes actually unfold, they rarely follow a linear or efficient path. They require space. They require periods of uncertainty, of iteration, of not knowing. They require a different kind of care - one that is less about control and more about allowing. Less about managing outcomes and more about supporting emergence.

There is a growing body of research in neuroscience that points to the importance of this kind of space. The brain’s default mode network, which is associated with insight and integration, becomes more active during periods of rest and reflection. In other words, the mind requires space in order to reorganise itself. And the same, in many ways, is true of how we relate to care.

When we approach care from a place of scarcity - where time is limited, energy is stretched, and everything feels urgent - we tend to become more controlling, more directive, more outcome-focused. But when care is rooted in a sense of abundance - where there is enough space, enough time, enough support - it begins to look different. It becomes more patient, more generative, more collaborative and more sustainable. And this shift, from scarcity to abundance, is not just practical. It is a fundamentally different way of relating - to care, to creativity, and to what we allow to emerge.

The Role of Safety in How We Give and Receive Care.

At the centre of all of this sits something that feels increasingly important to acknowledge, which is the role of safety. Our ability to give and receive care is directly shaped by how safe we feel. Not just physically, but emotionally and relationally. More recent work in neuroscience, particularly Polyvagal Theory, suggests that our capacity to connect, receive support, and feel safe in relationship is deeply linked to our nervous system - not just our conscious beliefs.

If at any point it has not felt safe to rely on others, to express needs, or to be supported without expectation, then the body adapts. It develops strategies that prioritise stability. And for many of us, that strategy becomes self-reliance. The ability to function independently, to manage internally, to maintain control over what is happening. We learn to become self-sufficient. We learn to manage alone. We learn to anticipate rather than ask.

Again, this is not inherently problematic. In many cases, it is what allows us to navigate complex environments successfully. But it also creates a ceiling. Because self-reliance, on its own, cannot sustain the kind of relational depth and shared responsibility that most systems - whether individual or organisational - actually require. Safety that is built on self-sufficiency alone is fragile. It requires constant maintenance. It leaves little room for rest. And it often prevents deeper forms of connection - both personally and professionally.

This is where redefining care becomes less about behaviour, and more about experience and expanding capacity. It’s not just about what we do differently. It’s about whether we can begin to experience support, interdependence, and shared responsibility as safe.

The Tension Between Independence and Dependency.

One of the more nuanced aspects of this work is navigating the tension between independence and dependency. In many leadership and professional contexts, independence is positioned as the goal. The ability to operate autonomously, to make decisions, to take ownership - these are all seen as markers of capability. And to a certain extent, they are. But when independence becomes the only acceptable mode of functioning, it can quietly shift into something else: self-dependency. A state where we rely solely on ourselves, not because it is always the most effective approach, but because it feels like the only safe one.

On the other side of this, dependency is often viewed negatively - associated with lack of capability or over-reliance on others. But this binary misses something important. Because the alternative to both is interdependence. A more balanced dynamic where:

- support can be given and received

- responsibility can be shared

- autonomy and connection can coexist

And this is where care begins to take on a different quality. Not as something we either give or receive, but as something that exists within a system of relationships.

Care as a Leadership Capability.

When we bring this back into leadership, the implications become clearer. The way we relate to care shapes not just our own experience, but the environments we create. Leaders who struggle to receive care often create cultures where others feel they must do the same. Leaders who overextend themselves often normalise overextension in their teams. Leaders who equate care with control may unintentionally limit autonomy and trust.

But when leaders begin to develop a more conscious relationship with care, something shifts. They create space. Space for honesty, support, experimentation, and sustainable performance. This aligns closely with what we’ve explored in our work around psychological safety and emotional inteligence, as well as in pieces like The Joy of Starting Over - where transformation is not driven by immediate action, but by the willingness to stay with uncertainty long enough for something new to emerge.

Care, in this context, is not a soft or secondary capability. It is foundational.

A Different Relationship With Self-Care.

It would be difficult to talk about care without touching on self-care - a term that has become increasingly visible, and at times, increasingly diluted. What I’ve come to realise is that self-care, in its more meaningful form, is not about optimisation or performance. It is not about doing more things to maintain output. It is about relationship:

How we relate to our own needs.

How we respond to our own limits.

How we hold ourselves when things are uncertain or difficult.

In that sense, self-care is not separate from the patterns we’ve been exploring. It is deeply connected to them. If our internalised understanding of care is rooted in responsibility, control, or conditionality, then self-care will often take on those same qualities. It will feel like something we have to earn. Something we fit in around everything else. Or something we use to recover, rather than to sustain.

Redefining self-care, then, becomes part of redefining care more broadly.

What Begins to Change.

This is not a process that resolves quickly or cleanly. It is something that unfolds gradually, often in ways that are only visible in hindsight. Small moments where something is done differently. Where support is allowed in slightly earlier. Where responsibility is shared, rather than held alone.

I’ve noticed, for example, that there are moments now where I can pause, even briefly, before stepping in. Where I can recognise that something does not need to be carried in the way I might have previously assumed. Letting go of the need to hold everything together. Where I can allow space for others to contribute, rather than instinctively taking the lead.

These are not dramatic changes. But they are significant. Because they begin to reshape the underlying relationship with care. Moving it from something that is managed individually, to something that can exist more collectively. And perhaps most importantly, beginning to experience care not just as something we give, but as something we are part of.

The Creating Space Perspective.

What I’ve been noticing is that this kind of shift doesn’t happen through a single realisation, or even through a clear decision to do things differently. It tends to emerge more gradually, through a different way of relating to what’s happening in the moment.

In our work at We Create Space, we often describe this as a movement that begins with awareness - simply noticing the patterns that are playing out, without immediately trying to change them. From there, there is a softening into compassion, an ability to understand those patterns in context rather than judging them. And then, a widening into connection - recognising that what we are experiencing is not isolated, but part of a broader system of relationships, environments, and learned behaviours.

It is only from that place that something like agency becomes possible. Not as a reaction, but as a choice. A slightly different response. A small shift in how we engage with what is happening. This is not a linear process, and it doesn’t happen once. It repeats, often quietly, across different situations. But over time, it begins to change how we move - less from automatic response, and more from something that feels considered, intentional, and grounded.

At the centre of this is something that can feel counterintuitive, particularly in environments that prioritise speed and clarity: the idea that transformation requires space before it requires structure. That there is value in pausing, in not immediately resolving, in allowing something to be seen more clearly before deciding what to do with it. And in many ways, this is where care begins to shift. Not just in how we act, but in how we relate - to ourselves, to others, and to the systems we are part of.

Pause and Reflect.

If you’re exploring your own relationship with care, you might begin with a few simple questions:

• What did care look like in my early environment?

• How do I tend to give care now?

• How comfortable am I receiving it?

• Where might I be overextending or over-responsible?

• What feels difficult about asking for support?

• What would a more balanced relationship with care look like?

These questions are not designed to produce quick clarity. They are designed to shift awareness. They are questions to sit with. Because often, the insight comes not from the first response, but from what emerges over time.

A Different Way of Holding It All.

If I return to where I started - to that quiet question of what care actually means to me now - the answer is still evolving. But what has shifted is how I relate to it. Less as something I need to manage or get right. More as something I can understand, explore, and gradually reshape. More as something I can stay in relationship with. Because care is not static. It is not something we master once and carry forward unchanged. It is something that continues to evolve as we do. And perhaps the shift is not in trying to perfect it, but in becoming more aware of how it is shaping us - and where we might begin to choose something different. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But gradually, in the way we relate to ourselves, to others, and to the spaces we are part of.

In that sense, redefining our relationship with care is not about adding something new. It is about understanding what has always been there - and allowing it to become something more conscious, more balanced, and ultimately, more sustainable. And so perhaps the shift is not in learning how to care better, but in understanding how we’ve been relating to it all along.

Michael Stephens (he/they) is a consultant designing human-centred systems rooted in transformation and long-term growth. He works at the level of culture and relationships, examining how leadership is experienced across identity, wellbeing and performance. As Founder of We Create Space, he partners with global organisations to design leadership ecosystems that strengthen capability, deepen belonging and support sustainable success.

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