My Journey Through the Acceptance Game

A few weeks ago, I wrote about The Acceptance Game — the subconscious roles we play to feel loved, safe, and accepted.

It was one of the deepest pieces I’ve written.

But it was missing something: me.

It mapped out the psychology. The frameworks. The theory behind why we hide our truth to secure connection.

But behind every idea was a real story. My story.

So in this follow-up, I want to take you behind the mask — and share how the game played out in my life. Not as a concept, but as a pattern I lived for decades without realising it.

The roles I performed.

The parts of myself I pushed away.

And the slow, painful process of finding my way back to who I really am.

This is what The Acceptance Game looked like from the inside.

It Begins With a Choice You Don’t Know You’re Making

Growing up as the youngest of three siblings, I lived in a loud household where there was always a battle for attention.

It wasn’t that love was absent, but in a house full of strong personalities, the one who shouted loudest usually got heard. And as the youngest, I learned quickly that if I wanted to be seen, I had to do something to earn it.

One moment stands out.

I must’ve been six or seven when I was out shopping with my mum and nanna. They were holding a dress with a sale tag: “10% off — was £20.” They stood there trying to figure out the price, turning the label over in their hands.

Before they could get to the till, I said: "It’ll be £18."

They paused. Then looked at me with a puzzled face as if they didn’t quite believe me.

When the cashier confirmed it, their faces lit up.

“How did you know that?”

“You're so clever."

I brushed it off and said it was simple maths.

But something clicked.

Being smart gets me attention.

If I impress people, I matter.

Looking back, it was the first time I felt a sense of worth tied to performance.

Not because anyone forced it on me, but because my nervous system registered the equation:

Impress → get attention

Blend in → be ignored

It seems harmless — just a kid being praised for what he’s good at.

But as Gabor Maté puts it, “When a child is forced to choose between authenticity and attachment, they will choose attachment every time.”

And while it might not look like a sacrifice of authenticity — in that moment, a seed was planted:

This is how I get seen.

This is who I need to be to matter.

A quiet shift from simply being, to constantly becoming.

Becoming who others would praise.

Becoming someone worth loving.

That’s how the game begins.

Not with a decision, but with a survival instinct.

The Runner Who Wanted to Belong

In my family, running wasn’t just a sport — it was identity.

My dad was a middle-distance runner.

My sister dominated sprinting events.

My brother, despite barely training, made winning look effortless.

Running was what we did. It was how we connected. How we earned pride, attention, respect.

And my dad wasn’t just my dad — he was also my coach.

Which meant the lines between love and performance were often blurry.

When I ran well, I felt close to him. Seen.

When I didn’t, I felt like I'd let him down. Invisible.

As the youngest, I never questioned whether I wanted to run.

I just threw myself in. Four days a week at the local track. Weekends spent driving to races as a family.

It gave me something — a place in the system.

I wasn’t just “the youngest.” I was the one chasing the dream.

And I played the part well.

Disciplined. Hard working. Determined.

I learned to stay quiet when I felt frustrated. To hide the shame when I fell short. To downplay the crushing pressure that made my legs feel like lead on race day.

Because there was an unspoken rule I had internalised:

Just do better

Just train harder.

I wasn’t just chasing medals.

I was trying to hold onto my place in the tribe.

In Internal Family Systems (IFS), these are called “exiles”: the parts of us that carry emotions we’ve learned aren’t safe to show.

In their place, a protector part stepped in — one that kept me in line, kept me improving, and kept me connected.

The Good Athlete.

The Committed One.

The Hard Worker.

He wasn’t trying to deceive anyone, he was trying to protect me.

It didn’t feel like pretending, it felt like survival.

As Gabor Maté has found, a child will always choose attachment over authenticity.

And I did. Not through one big decision, but through a thousand small ones. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t just chasing success, I was suppressing parts of myself that might not get approved.

Contorting myself to fit the image that kept me included.

To be accepted.

To not lose the only form of love I thought I had access to.

The Misfit Who Didn’t Belong

While running gave me a place in my family, school was a different story.

In primary school, I was popular. Confident. The funny one.

But everything changed in secondary school.

Suddenly, I didn’t fit anywhere.

I wasn’t cool enough for the popular kids. I didn’t relate to the goths or the gamers. And I didn’t click with the academic kids either. I became a bit of a floater. A lone wolf.

At lunch, I’d often just wander around by myself — circling the playground, headphones in, killing time.

To make things worse, I had bad acne throughout my teenage years. It crushed my confidence. I’d avoid speaking to people, convinced they were staring at my face.

I never spoke to girls. Not because I didn’t want to — but because the idea of being seen felt terrifying.

Looking back, that’s what I remember most: Not the loneliness itself, but the fear of being seen while lonely.

The constant scanning of “Who do I have to be to fit in?”

And the quiet ache of feeling like I’d already failed the test.

At home, I could be the disciplined runner.

But at school, I had no role to step into.

No mask that felt safe.

No protector part to shield me, just the raw exposure of adolescence.

In IFS, these protector parts usually show up to help us cope, adapt, perform. But here, there was nothing strong enough to intervene. No inner strategy to help me belong, just the feeling that I was fundamentally out of place.

So I did what many of us do when we feel like we don’t belong, I started to shrink.

I muted my opinions.

I softened my edges.

I tried to blend in, not to be liked, but just to avoid rejection.

This wasn’t about survival through performance anymore.

This was survival through invisibility.

It was my nervous system’s best strategy at the time:

If I can’t be someone they’ll accept, maybe I’ll be no one at all.

I wasn’t performing. I was disappearing.

And that, too, was part of the game.

The Social Chameleon

By the time I got to university, I saw it as a fresh start.

A chance to reinvent myself.

To finally be confident, outgoing, fun — the kind of person who fitted in.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was stepping into a new role:

The Chameleon.

In IFS, this was a classic protector part: the one who scans the room, shape shifts, and becomes whoever is safest to be.

In Jungian terms, it was my Persona: the social mask I built to be accepted.

After years of loneliness in school, I didn’t want to feel invisible anymore. So I threw myself into the social scene.

I drank. I partied. I made people laugh.

I became the guy who was always up for it.

And truthfully? University was one of the happiest periods of my life.

I made incredible friends, people who are still my best friends to this day.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had found my people.

The connections were real. The joy was real.

But beneath it, the game was still being played — just in a different way.

Now, instead of chasing medals, I was chasing moments of belonging.

The “You’re a legend” after a night out.

The stories people would retell the next morning that made me feel like I mattered.

I was happy.

But I was also performing.

There was a subtle pressure to always be “on.”

To be the wild one. The unpredictable one. The one who did something.

So I shaped myself — not consciously, but consistently.

I muted the deeper parts of me.

I kept things light.

I shared the jokes, but not the insecurities.

I showed the highs, but not the anxiety underneath.

And after the fun, the old feelings crept back in.

The social anxiety. The fear I had said too much, or not enough. That maybe I wasn’t as liked as I hoped.

I didn’t talk about it. Didn’t show it. Didn’t risk being real in case it changed how I was seen.

The mask was lighter than before, but I was still wearing it.

And everything I edited out — the sensitivity, the insecurity, the inner conflict — went into my Shadow.

As Carl Jung said, “The Shadow is everything within us we don’t want others to see.”

And the longer I kept those parts hidden, the more they shaped me from below.

Even though I was finally part of something, I still hadn’t learned how to bring all of myself to the table.

The High-Stakes Poker Player

After university, the party lifestyle started to fade. And with it, the identity I’d built around being the social one. But I still needed something — a way to feel seen, to feel valuable.

And that’s when I found poker.

At first, it was just a game. Strategic. Competitive.

But very quickly, it became something deeper.

A new arena to prove myself.

A new role to step into.

In poker, intelligence was admired. Discipline was praised. Staying calm under pressure was the badge of honour.

And I leaned into it — hard.

I became “the guy who takes it seriously.”

10 hour grind days.

Deep study.

Always improving.

I wasn’t just playing cards, I was playing a role.

The Grinder.

The Risk Taker.

The Smart One.

Another identity to earn acceptance through achievement.

Another mask to stay safe.

It was another protector part, though I didn’t know it at the time.

In IFS, protector parts are the roles we take on to keep us safe.

To keep us loved.

To keep the more vulnerable parts of us hidden from view.

And that’s exactly what this role did.

It helped me earn respect.

It gave me a sense of control.

It kept the fragile parts of me — the insecure teenager, the under performing runner, the scared kid — tucked far away.

I was praised for my mindset. Admired for my discipline.

But I wasn’t free. I was armoured.

Behind the mask, I still carried the same questions:

Am I enough?

What if they find out I’m not as confident as I seem?

What happens if I start losing?

Carl Jung would call this the Persona: The polished version of ourselves we create to survive socially.

To be accepted. Admired. Safe.

And everything that didn’t fit that image —the fear, the doubt, the pressure, the quiet ache for something more —got pushed into what Jung called the Shadow.

I didn’t get rid of those parts. I just stopped showing them.

On paper, I was crushing it. I had climbed to the top of my format, beating the best players in the world.

But inside, I felt hollow.

There was no moment of arrival. No deep exhale. Just the same low hum of anxiety and the subtle fear that it could all disappear.

I thought I was playing to win.

But really, I was still playing the same game I always had — the Acceptance Game.

Trying to earn approval by becoming who I thought I needed to be.

The Coach Who Had to Be Valuable

When I transitioned from poker into coaching, it felt like a turning point.

For the first time, I wasn’t chasing rewards — I was helping people.

And that felt meaningful.

I thought I had stepped out of the old game. That I had evolved past the need to prove myself.

But without realising it, I had just traded one role for another.

The performer became the helper.

The expert.

The one with the answers.

At first, it felt amazing. Every time a client had a breakthrough, I felt a surge of purpose.I was adding value. I was making a difference.

But over time, something else crept in.

The pressure to always deliver.

To always have the answer.

To be the coach — calm, insightful, wise.

Another protector part had stepped in, the part of me that equated being useful with being lovable.

He wasn’t performing to win anymore. He was performing to be needed.

And just like the roles before him, he was deeply effective — and deeply afraid.

If a client didn’t make progress, I felt like a failure. If someone questioned my ideas, I took it personally. If I didn’t know the answer, I felt exposed, like the whole identity might collapse.

Carl Jung would call this another Persona.

Not the high-achieving athlete or the invulnerable poker pro, but the one who always has it together.

The Coach who lives in the solution, never in the mess.

The uncertainty, the doubt, the fear of not being enough — they got pushed deeper into my Shadow.

I wasn’t lying. But I was editing.

Not just for my clients, but for myself.

I thought I was helping others find freedom.

But I was still playing the same old game:

Hide the parts of you that feel weak.

Over-deliver. Earn your place.

It took me a long time to see that underneath all the roles I’d played — the athlete, the misfit, the chameleon, the expert, the coach — was the same scared part of me just asking:

Am I enough if I stop performing?

When the Roles Stop Working

By the time I went on my first Vipassana retreat, I had already worn every mask I knew how to wear.

• The disciplined athlete

• The wild party guy

• The stoic poker pro

• The high value coach

Each role had served me. Each one had helped me earn approval, avoid rejection, stay safe.

But under the surface, I was tired.

Tired of proving.

Tired of curating.

Tired of being whoever I needed to be.

I didn’t go on retreat expecting transformation.

I went because I felt stuck. Disconnected. Exhausted by the noise of modern life, and the noise inside my own mind.

And in that silence, something happened that had never happened before:

The roles stopped working.

There was no one to impress.

No feedback. No scorecard. No identity to lean on.

It was just me. My body. My mind. And ten hours of meditation a day.

And that’s when the exiles began to surface: The parts of me I had kept hidden for years.

On Day 6, I was hit by a wave of grief and sadness I didn’t see coming .I had visions of childhood, moments where I felt like I didn’t fit in, didn’t belong, wasn’t enough. I remembered the shame of falling short, the guilt of never quite living up to my image, the pain I had buried so deep, I’d forgotten it was there.

I felt like a scared, lost boy, sitting alone in a room I couldn’t escape.

And for once, the usual protector parts had no plan. No mindset shift. No positive reframing.

Just stillness, and pain.

This is what Richard Schwartz calls “unblending.” When the parts you’ve been fused with — the achiever, the helper, the chameleon — start to loosen their grip, and the raw exiled emotion rises to the surface.

It was overwhelming. I cried. I trembled. I sat in silence as old wounds bled open.

And strangely, that’s where the healing began.

Not by fixing anything, but by finally feeling what I’d been avoiding for years.

I wasn’t being productive.

I wasn’t being valuable.

I wasn’t doing anything that looked impressive.

I was just there, with the parts of me I had spent a lifetime running from.

In that space, something shifted.

For the first time, I wasn’t performing, I was just present.

The Shadow didn’t swallow me, it softened.

The exiles didn’t destroy me, they just wanted to be seen.

And beneath it all, something deeper than the roles emerged.

Stillness.

Clarity.

Self.

What Happens When You Stop Playing the Game

I didn’t leave Vipassana with a clear answer.

There was no grand epiphany. No identity to step into. Just space, and a new kind of quiet.

But in that quiet, something had shifted.

For the first time in my adult life, I didn’t feel like I had to be anyone.

Not the achiever.

Not the helper.

Not the strong one.

Not the smart one.

Just… me.

Unpolished. Soft. Still raw in places.

And that’s when I realised something:

You don’t exit the Acceptance Game by becoming someone better. You exit by no longer negotiating who you are.

It doesn’t happen in one big moment.

It happens breath by breath.

Conversation by conversation.

Choice by choice.

The roles don’t disappear overnight — but now, I see them for what they are.

Protector parts.

Masks I wore to stay safe.

Strategies that made sense, until they didn’t.

They’re still there. The achiever still wants to fix. The coach still wants to have the answer. The chameleon still wants to be liked by the room. But now, I can pause and listen.

I have space to ask:

What’s underneath this impulse?

What part of me is afraid right now?

What would it mean to show up without the mask?

This isn’t about becoming perfect. It's about becoming whole.

And wholeness means making room for the parts I once exiled.

The insecure kid.

The angry teenager.

The sad, silent version of me who used to walk in circles at lunch with headphones on.

They don’t need to run the show.

They just need to be welcomed in.

As IFS teaches, there are no bad parts — only parts trying to protect us from pain.

And when you meet them with presence instead of judgment, something shifts.

You stop performing. You start relating.

And from there, a new way of being begins to emerge.

Not curated.

Not strategic.

Just aligned.

The Return to Self

If the Acceptance Game is about becoming who you need to be to be loved, then returning to yourself is about remembering you were lovable all along.

• Not for being impressive.

• Not for being useful.

• Not for saying the right thing.

But for simply being… you.

It’s strange, in a way.

After all the personas, the performances, the roles, what I’ve come back to feels almost too simple to trust.

Stillness. Presence. Authenticity.

There’s no badge for taking the mask off.

No instant reward for letting people see the whole you.

In fact, it can feel risky. Raw. Unfamiliar.

But it’s also freeing.

Because when you stop asking, “Who do I need to be to be accepted?” And start asking, “What’s actually true for me right now?” You reclaim something you forgot you’d lost.

Your Self.

The real you.

In IFS, the Self isn’t a role. It’s your natural state beneath the noise.

Curious. Calm. Compassionate. Connected.

It was never gone. Just buried.

And now, I’m learning to live from that place more often.

To notice when a part wants to take over, and pause.

To hear the protector, but not be led by it.

To make space for my exiled parts, but not drown in them.

To choose presence over performance.

I’m still learning. I still catching myself playing the game some days. But at least now I play it with my eyes open. And more and more, I choose not to play at all.

I used to think freedom would come from becoming more — more successful, more respected, more impressive.

But the truth is, I wasn’t chasing freedom or even growth. I was chasing acceptance, by becoming who I thought I needed to be.

Yet real freedom has actually come from becoming less.

• Less performative.

• Less reactive.

• Less afraid to be seen.

I’m not chasing belonging anymore.

I’m practicing being myself — and letting that be enough.

Adam