From Find My Anxiety to Adult Privacy: Setting a Calm Boundary
Finding Clarity in the TTC “Why Were You There?” Text
You get a “Why were you at that address?” text right after you do something normal (grocery run, coffee, seeing a friend), and your chest tightens like you’re about to be audited.
Maya told me that line almost verbatim—24, Toronto, first real job, first real rent, and somehow her parent still had a real-time dot on her like a “parental dashboard” that never got decommissioned.
In my mind, I could already see the scene before she even described it: 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday, squeezed into a TTC subway car heading back downtown. Fluorescent lights doing that faint flicker that makes everyone look a little tired. The train rattling so loud it feels like it’s inside your teeth. Her phone warm in her palm—then the iMessage preview: “Why were you at that address?”
“It’s not even that I’m doing anything,” she said, voice low, like the whole car might overhear her confession. “I’ll stop at Shoppers for toothpaste and suddenly I’m… explaining. Like I’m on probation.”
When she said that, I noticed her jaw tighten in a way I see a lot—like the body is bracing before the mind has even decided what it’s allowed to feel. Tight chest. Clenched jaw. The reflexive reach for the most defensible version of a normal life.
Her core dilemma arrived in one sentence that could’ve been a Google search: “I want adult privacy, but I don’t want to be cast as unsafe or ungrateful.”
I let that land gently. “We can take this seriously without making it dramatic,” I told her. “Today isn’t about winning a fight. It’s about finding clarity and building a boundary you can actually hold—without turning your love into a court case.”
Choosing the Compass: The Celtic Cross · Context Edition
I asked Maya to take one slow breath—not as a ritual, but as a reset. “Just enough to get you out of the notification reflex,” I said. I shuffled slowly, the way I do when I’m trying to match the pace of someone’s nervous system rather than their urgency.
Because I’m a Paris-trained perfumer, I keep scent close—not as incense-and-mystery, but as sensory psychology. I offered her a blotter strip with a soft, clean neroli-lavender accord. “Smell this once,” I said, “and let your shoulders drop by one millimeter. That’s all we need.”
“Okay,” she exhaled, a little laugh escaping. “One millimeter I can do.”
“For this question—my parent keeps checking Find My; how do I set a location-sharing boundary—I’m using the Celtic Cross · Context Edition.”
Here’s why I like this spread for something like Find My boundaries: it doesn’t treat the problem like a single toggle. It maps the whole chain—present behavior, the emotional mechanism underneath, the old family contract that got imported into a smartphone setting, and the clean next step that turns rumination into real life.
In this version, a couple positions are adjusted to fit modern family tech dynamics. Position 6 becomes the near-term action channel—what you do next to set the bound. Position 8 zooms in on the parent’s authority/protection mindset—because that “I’m just keeping you safe” energy shapes everything.
“We’ll start at the center,” I said, “the exact autopilot loop you’re living. Then we’ll go down to the root—the old script. Then we’ll climb toward the outcome—not fate, guidance.”
Reading the Map: How the App Became a Relationship Rule
Position 1 — The current lived moment: the stuck behavior and the emotional weather
“Now flipping over is the card that represents the current lived moment—what this looks like on a random weeknight, not what you wish it looked like.”
Two of Swords, upright.
I pointed to the blindfold, the crossed swords held tight over the chest. “This is the posture of ‘I’ll just not deal with it,’” I said. “It looks calm. It costs a lot.”
And immediately, the card translated itself into her life: 11 p.m., in bed in Toronto, phone glow on your face, Find My open. You hover over ‘Stop Sharing My Location,’ then back out. You tell yourself you’re keeping the peace—but your shoulders are tight because you’re postponing a conversation, not solving it.
Two of Swords isn’t indecision as a personality flaw. It’s a nervous system strategy. Avoiding a direct choice so you don’t have to feel the hit of someone’s reaction. The energy here is blocked Air: too much thinking, not enough naming.
Maya did something that surprised me—she gave a small, bitter laugh. “That’s… painfully accurate,” she said. “Like, rude.”
I nodded, keeping my voice even. “It’s not rude. It’s honest. The card is showing you the ‘peace-now vs resentment-later’ trade you’ve been making.”
Position 2 — The main tension point: what keeps the boundary from landing cleanly
“Now flipping over is the card that represents the main tension point—the force that crosses you when you try to set this boundary.”
Four of Pentacles, upright.
The image is all tight grip—pentacle clutched to the heart, guarded posture, a city in the background like a reminder that life has moved forward even if the rules haven’t.
In modern terms, I said, “This is control as comfort.” It’s the dynamic where access gets treated like emotional security. Your parent frames location checks as ‘just safety,’ but it lands like oversight. You feel like you have to pay with privacy to keep the relationship stable—so you keep sharing by default, even while resentment grows.
The energy here is excess Earth: security held too tightly. Not evil. Not even always conscious. Just… clenched.
“That’s what makes me feel crazy,” Maya said. “Because they’re not being mean. They’re just… always there.” She made a tiny circling gesture near her phone, like the dot was floating above it.
“Right,” I said. “And if you keep paying with privacy, you’ll eventually resent the relationship itself. That’s the cost Four of Pentacles doesn’t want to look at.”
Position 3 — The deep root: the old relational contract this app is activating
“Now flipping over is the card that represents the deep root—the older contract underneath the app.”
Six of Cups, upright.
This card is nostalgia, early roles, the sweetness of being cared for—when closeness and access were the same thing because you were, in fact, a kid.
“This is where my perfumer brain and my tarot brain shake hands,” I told her. “Because safety has a scent memory.”
I used my Family Energy Diagnosis the way I usually do: not to analyze her parent, but to trace the emotional flow. “When you think of ‘home’ growing up,” I asked, “what’s the smell?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Laundry. Like… warm dryer sheets. And this lemon cleaner my mom used.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Six of Cups says part of you still equates ‘being reassuring’ with staying loved and safe. So when they say, ‘I just want to know you’re okay,’ a younger part of you reaches for proof.”
Adult Maya wants privacy. Younger Maya wants the relationship to feel soft and safe. The card isn’t telling you to reject affection. It’s telling you to update the rules for the adult version of this relationship.
She swallowed, eyes flicking away from the spread for a second. “I hate that that’s true,” she said. “Because it makes me feel like I’m twelve.”
“You’re not twelve,” I said. “You’re just touching the part of you that learned: ‘If I’m easy, everyone stays calm.’”
Position 4 — What recently reinforced the pattern: the moment that trained your nervous system
“Now flipping over is the card that represents what has recently reinforced the pattern—the moment that made your body decide this boundary is dangerous.”
Eight of Swords, upright.
I pointed to the loose bindings, the blindfold, and the space beyond the swords. “This is a false lock,” I said. “Like a door you assume is bolted until you finally try the handle.”
In real life, it’s: ‘There’s no way to change this without a blow-up.’ So you tiptoe, you soften, you keep the sharing on, and the app starts feeling like it has the final say.
I listed micro-evidence, because Eight of Swords responds to proof: “You’re employed. You pay rent in Toronto—no small feat. You commute alone. You navigate the city. Your life already contains a hundred pieces of adult competence.”
Maya’s stomach visibly dropped—then her shoulders lowered half an inch, like a strap loosening. “Oh,” she said quietly. “So it’s not actually locked.”
“You’re not trapped,” I said. “You’re rehearsing a trap.”
When Justice Spoke: Turning Find My Into a Consent Agreement
Position 5 — Your north star: the relationship ethic you want to live
“Now we flip the card that represents your north star—the kind of boundary and relationship ethic you want to move toward.”
When I turned it over, the room felt quieter. Even the hum of my little diffuser seemed to fade into the background.
Justice, upright.
Scales. Upright sword. Square stone seat. This isn’t about vibes. It’s about terms.
Justice doesn’t ask, “How do I say this so nobody feels anything?” Justice asks, “What is fair? What is consensual? What is clear enough that I can repeat it without arguing my whole character?”
And this is where I brought in my Conflict Transformation System, the tool I use when a family tension keeps masquerading as a personality problem. “Let’s stop treating this like a family argument,” I said. “Treat it like a contract negotiation: two non-negotiables and one flexible offer.”
Because The Emperor energy (we’ll see it soon) respects structure. And your nervous system respects structure too. Structure means you don’t have to improvise yourself into guilt at 11:38 p.m.
The Aha Moment (Setup)
You know that moment when you open Settings, hover over Location Sharing, and your jaw clenches—because one toggle somehow feels like a whole character judgment: “responsible” vs “hiding something”?
The Aha Moment (Delivery)
Not a guilt-led over-explanation—choose a clear agreement and put it on the scales.
The Aha Moment (Reinforcement)
Maya froze first—breath suspended, like her body was waiting for the guilty part to argue back. Then her eyes unfocused, not at the card anymore but somewhere behind it, like she was replaying every “Home now” text she’d ever sent as a substitute for having a boundary. Her mouth opened, closed, and finally she let out one long, shaky exhale that sounded almost like relief and almost like grief.
“But if I do that,” she said, and her voice sharpened for a second—an unexpected flicker of anger, not at me but at the whole setup—“doesn’t it mean I’ve been… letting this happen?”
I kept my tone warm and steady. “It means you’ve been coping. That’s different. Justice doesn’t punish you for how you survived. Justice just changes the policy so you don’t have to survive this anymore.”
I slid a fresh blotter strip toward her—same calming scent—so her body could have something to hold onto while her mind adjusted. “Now,” I said, “use this new lens and look back at last week. Was there a moment—one moment—when this could have made you feel different? Maybe when you were outside Shoppers, bag cutting into your fingers, and you checked your dot before you crossed the street.”
She nodded, slower this time. Her shoulders sank, then she blinked hard, eyes a touch glossy. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I could’ve just… not explained. I could’ve just had a rule.”
That was the shift. Not from “conflict-avoidant” to “fearless.” From tight vigilance to the first taste of grounded self-trust—choosing consent and fairness over constant self-justification.
Reading Forward: The Script, the Strength, and the Middle Path
Position 6 — Near-term action channel: the most constructive next step
“Now flipping over is the card that represents the near-term action channel—what moves this from rumination to a real conversation.”
Queen of Swords, upright.
Her gaze is clear. Her sword is upright. The energy is balanced Air: direct, not cruel; concise, not cold.
In modern life, it’s this: sending a short, respectful message—and resisting the urge to add five paragraphs to prevent a reaction.
I gave her the Queen of Swords version of the truth: “Kindness isn’t the same thing as access.”
Then I used the technique I call script-in-the-mouth—because you can feel the moment you’re about to over-explain. “Say this out loud,” I told her. “And pay attention to your tongue pressing against your teeth right before you add the second paragraph. That’s your cue to stop.”
Maya tried it, softly: “I’m turning off continuous location sharing. I’ll text when I get home.”
She looked up like she wanted to screenshot her own mouth. “That feels… clean,” she said. “Terrifying. But clean.”
Position 7 — Your stance and capacity: what part of you must lead
“Now flipping over is the card that represents your stance—what part of you needs to be in charge so you don’t cave or escalate.”
Strength, upright.
Strength is regulated courage. It’s the calm hand on the lion—not domination, not collapse. The energy here is steady heat: you can feel guilt rise, and you don’t let it drive the car.
“This isn’t about winning against your parent,” I said. “It’s about repeating the policy while your body is still warm and human.”
Maya nodded once, firm. Then she exhaled again, like she was practicing not sprinting into an apology.
Position 8 — External dynamic: the parent’s mindset and the power structure
“Now flipping over is the card that represents the environment—how their side is structured, how authority shows up here.”
The Emperor, upright.
Armor under the robe. Stone throne. Rams’ heads. The Emperor energy is: “My rules keep you safe.” It’s protective, structured, and not great with ambiguity.
“This is why vague hints don’t work,” I told her. “If you leave a vacuum, Emperor energy fills it with rules. The only thing it respects is a clearer rule.”
Maya’s lips pressed together. “That’s… exactly it,” she said. “If I’m not explicit, it becomes assumed.”
Position 9 — Hopes and fears: the 3 a.m. courtroom drama
“Now flipping over is the card that represents your hopes and fears—the inner push-pull that keeps you rehearsing.”
Nine of Swords, upright.
This is 3:07 a.m., duvet twisted around your legs, fridge humming in the silence, and your mind running ten versions of the conversation like a Netflix limited series called The Trial of Your Trustworthiness.
The energy is excess Air again—rumination that exhausts you before you take one step. “Your brain is trying to pre-solve every possible reaction,” I said. “But that’s not safety. That’s self-punishment dressed up as preparation.”
She let out a quiet “yeah” that sounded like someone putting a heavy bag down.
Position 10 — Integration direction: the sustainable way this settles
“Now flipping over is the card that represents integration—the healthiest, most livable middle path.”
Temperance, upright.
One foot on land, one in water. Pouring between two cups. Not all-or-nothing. Not 24/7 access or total cutoff. A system redesign.
In modern terms: swapping default tracking for chosen connection—like turning on Travel Mode when it’s useful, and turning it off when it’s not. Version 1.0. Iterate later.
Maya’s face softened. “I could do travel-only,” she said. “That feels fair.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Temperance isn’t a dramatic gesture. It’s a routine you won’t resent.”
The Location-Sharing Agreement: Actionable Advice You Can Hold Under Pressure
I leaned back and gave her the integrated story the spread had been telling all along:
“You’re stuck (Two of Swords) because you’ve been trying to keep peace through silence. Their worry holds tight (Four of Pentacles) and your childhood role flares up—prove you’re okay, keep everyone calm (Six of Cups). A recent moment trained your nervous system to treat one toggle like a building alarm (Eight of Swords). Justice is your pivot: fairness and consent, not a love test. The Queen of Swords gives you the script; Strength gives you the body to hold it; The Emperor explains why structure matters; Temperance shows the sustainable compromise.”
“Your cognitive blind spot,” I added gently, “is thinking you need the perfect wording that prevents a reaction. That keeps you managing their feelings instead of stating your boundary. The transformation direction is simpler—and harder: stop arguing your whole character. State the policy.”
Then I gave her the next steps—small enough to start, structured enough to repeat.
- The 10-Minute Justice DraftOpen Notes and write three lines: (1) “I’m turning off continuous location sharing starting ___.” (2) “If you need reassurance, I’m willing to do ___ (one option: arrival text / weekly call / travel-only share).” (3) “If you check/ask in a monitoring way, I’ll ___ (one calm consequence you control, like ‘I’ll reply later when I’m calm’).” Read it out loud once.If your chest tightens, shrink it to a one-sentence cap. Today you only need a version you can actually send.
- Send It at a Neutral TimeChoose a low-drama window—Tuesday around 6:30 p.m. after you’ve eaten—then send your two lines (boundary + alternative). Not midnight. Not during an argument. Not in the TTC spiral.Expect the urge to justify. Your job is clarity + calm repetition, not persuasion.
- Copy/Paste Calm Repetition + a PauseIf they respond with questions, reply once by copying your same two lines. Then take a 20-minute break before any further replies. Let Strength do its work in your body.After you hit send, put your phone face-down for 5 minutes and do something physical—wash one dish, change clothes, step onto the balcony—so your nervous system learns: “I can survive the silence.”
And because scent is part of how we hold boundaries, I offered a simple add-on from my toolkit: dialogue atmosphere enhancement with calming scents. “Before you send the text,” I said, “smell one calming scent you like—lavender, clean musk, even citrus if that feels more ‘you.’ You’re not trying to make it pretty. You’re anchoring your body to steadiness so you don’t spiral into over-explaining.”
A Week Later: The Quiet Proof of Adult Boundaries
A week later, Maya texted me a screenshot. Two sentences. No essay. No timeline defense. The message thread underneath had some pushback—of course it did—but her replies were… boring. In the best way. Copy/paste calm repetition. A pause. Then, “Love you. Talk Sunday.”
She added: “I slept through the night after I sent it. But I still woke up and thought, ‘What if I’m being mean?’ And then I remembered: policy, not verdict. And I made coffee.”
That’s the Journey to Clarity most people don’t romanticize: not instant confidence—just a steadier center. From living with an invisible audience to relating as an adult with defined privacy, where care is offered by choice and location access becomes a mutually agreed tool, not a default entitlement.
When one phone setting feels like a referendum on whether you’re trustworthy, it makes sense that your chest tightens—not because you don’t love them, but because you’re tired of proving you deserve basic privacy.
If you treated location sharing like an agreement you can update (not a loyalty test you must pass), what’s the smallest rule you’d actually feel okay repeating—calmly, more than once?
