What is Entitlement
Entitlement: when someone believes they have the right to violate your boundaries. How it shows up and how it can change.
RELATIONSHIP PATTERNS
Lilika Vergi
8/20/20266 min read
The father comments, once again, on who his son's friends are. "I don't like this crowd," he says, as if he still has a say in it, even though his son is now an adult, with his own job, his own life, and his own life. The son tries to change the subject, but the father won't let it go. He brings it up again the next time they talk, and the time after that, until the son starts weighing what he'll say about his friends before he even speaks — preparing himself, as if apologising in advance for choices he doesn't need to justify to anyone.
The same pattern shows up differently, too, in a form that's harder to recognise. A mother interferes with every decision her daughter makes: where she'll live with her husband, which job she'll take, and how she'll raise her children. She doesn't do it aggressively — she does it with worry, in a tone that sounds tender. "I do it because I love you; I want what's best for you," she says, repeating it every time her daughter tries to create some distance. And when the daughter reacts, even mildly, the mother is so visibly hurt that the daughter ends up apologising herself — for trying to have control over something that's hers.
Both parents believe, without ever saying it openly, the same thing: that they still have the right to step into places that are no longer theirs to enter — friendships, decisions, the way their children want to live their own lives. One does it through criticism, the other through love. The result, though, is the same: the son and the daughter learn never to truly feel that their space is their own.
This is called entitlement.
What entitlement really is
Boundaries don't mean "rules of politeness". They mean that there's something like an invisible fence around you — your space: the right to think for yourself, to choose for yourself, to live your life the way you want, without having to answer to anyone or ask for permission. The other person has their own equivalent fence. And when you set boundaries, you're doing nothing more than tending to that fence — showing where your space ends and someone else's begins. Entitlement is exactly what's missing here: someone recognises and protects their own fence but refuses to see that yours exists too.
This can show up in two ways. Sometimes it's obvious — criticism, comments, control, like when a parent judges your friendships. Other times it's harder to see, because it comes wearing the excuse of love. "I do it because I love you" — and with that alibi, they step into places that are no longer theirs: showing up at your home without asking if it's a good time, asking every day what you cooked, wanting a say in where you'll live or how you'll build your life as a couple — as if your home, your time, your life had never stopped being theirs, even after you've built a family of your own.
Both forms lead to the same place. They don't let you feel that you can decide for yourself, that your judgement matters, and that you have the right to build something of your own. Little by little, your self-esteem and your sense that you can stand on your own two feet wear away.
But how does "caring" actually turn into entitlement? And how does the way we learned, as children, to think about our boundaries carry over into every relationship and every part of our adult life?
That's exactly where the patterns are formed. Everything you learn about who has the right to what — who decides, who controls, where one person ends and the other begins — you learn first inside your relationship with your parent. It's nothing more than the "lesson" you learned all too well as a child, one that follows you, without your choosing it, into every relationship you go on to build.
That's why criticism of your friendships and interference "out of love" aren't two different problems. They're the same pattern, wearing two faces.
And yet, we can change it.
How it shows up in practice
The pattern doesn't only show up in what others do. It also shows up in what you allow — because somewhere, very early on, you learned not to defend your boundaries. That lesson started with your parent, and you carry it, without choosing to, into every relationship that followed.
In your relationship with your parent, it starts there. You hear criticism about how you dress, your friends, and your partner — and you say nothing, because you've learned that reacting costs more than staying silent. You answer every question about where you were and who you were with, even when you don't owe anyone a report, because "I won't tell you" feels more dangerous than telling everything.
And it doesn't stay there.
In your romantic relationship: you let your partner decide for both of you without real discussion, because you've learnt that disagreement brings tension you can't handle. You let your partner check your phone, your messages, your passwords — not because you actually chose that, but because saying no feels like you have something to hide, instead of a right you're allowed to exercise. You give an account of where you were even when it isn't fairly asked of you — no one ever taught you, "I don't need to explain myself to you."
In friendship: you say "yes" to every request from a friend, even when it barely works for you, because you're afraid a "no" will mean the end of the friendship.
At work: you take on tasks that aren't yours because you haven't learned to say, "That's not my job." You answer messages outside working hours because it feels easier than facing the possible displeasure of saying no.
With siblings or extended family: you take on the care of a parent or relative alone, without asking for it to be shared fairly — you learned early that your own needs come last.
You don't allow it because you're weak. You allow it because someone, very early on, never let you learn that you have the right to say no. And precisely because it was learned, it can be learned differently.
Why it isn't care — it's abuse.
Care leaves room. It asks; it doesn't impose. It respects "no", even when it disagrees. It worries, but it doesn't use that worry to control you.
Entitlement does the opposite. It doesn't leave room — it takes it over. It doesn't respect ""no"—it ignores it or punishes it. And "worry" becomes a tool: guilt when you disagree, withdrawal when you resist, and criticism when you choose something of your own.
This isn't simply difficult love. It's a form of emotional abuse — because whatever they do, they do it aiming for control, not for your wellbeing. And the result isn't safety. It's fear, guilt, and doubt about whether you even have the right to your own opinion.
The difficulty is that it often comes disguised as love — which is why you call it "that's just how my parent is" or "that's how they show they care" — instead of naming it for what it really is.
Where change begins
Until, at some point, a weight builds up. You can't breathe anymore. You're terrified of the guilt you feel when you see their reactions the moment you dare to say no, the moment you dare not to answer, the moment you dare simply to react.
That moment — as difficult as it is — is often the beginning. The point where something inside you refuses to go on like this.
You don't need to already know how to set a boundary to begin. It's enough to recognise the pattern — to see that what's happening isn't normal, isn't your fault, but something you learnt and something you can unlearn.
Change doesn't happen overnight. It takes safety, time, and the courage to see clearly what needs to change — without that necessarily meaning cutting off the relationship, only changing the way you function within it.
And this change brings something real. Your relationships become more honest, because they no longer rest on fear or guilt. You learn to trust your own judgement instead of constantly questioning it. The guilt you used to feel every time you chose something of your own begins to fade. And little by little, you discover something you may never have felt before: that you can live your life without needing to ask permission for it.
Sources
Durvasula, R. (2019). "Don't You Know Who I Am?": How to Stay Sane in an Era of Narcissism. Post Hill Press.
Bradshaw, J. (1995). Family Secrets: The Path to Self-Acceptance and Reunion. Bantam Books.
Walker, P. (2013). Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving. Azure Coyote.
This isn't "overreacting" or "being too sensitive" — it's a real rupture of safety within connection.
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Lilika Vergi | Trauma-Informed Counselling & Psychotherapy
Based in Greece, I work online with clients worldwide. Sessions are available in English and Greek.
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