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Have you ever watched someone's entire opinion of you change the moment you stopped being agreeable? You were wonderful when you were supportive, competent when you were useful, trustworthy when you didn't question them. Loyal when you went along with things, easy to work with when you stayed in your lane. Maybe they praised you. Maybe they told other people how much they respected you. Maybe they positioned themselves as someone who genuinely wanted to help you grow. And then one day you said no. Or you disagreed. Or you had a question that they didn't like. Maybe you pointed something out that made you uncomfortable. Maybe you challenged a behavior that didn't align with what they claim to stand for. Maybe you established a boundary. Or maybe you stopped giving them the response that they were accustomed to getting from you. And suddenly you're difficult. You're disrespectful. You're ungrateful. You're the problem. Here's what's interesting about that. Your competence didn't change. Your character didn't change. Your values didn't change. What changed was your compliance. And there are people who experience the loss of your compliance as a personal attack. That's difficult enough when you're dealing with someone on relatively equal footing. But what happens when that person has something that you need? What happens when they're your boss, your supervisor, your professor, your doctor, your therapist, your spiritual leader, your coach, your parent, your partner who controls the finances? What happens when the person whose ego that you've bruised also has the ability to create real consequences for you? Because a fragile ego is one thing. A fragile ego attached to power is something else entirely. That's what we're going to talk about today. Welcome back to Pattern Breakers Collective. I'm Lisa. I want to start with an important distinction before we go anywhere. Because we're going to talk today about narcissistic traits, about ego, about manipulation, about what happens when professional or personal authority gets used in ways that harm people. And I need to say clearly, I am not going to diagnose anyone from behind this microphone. The internet has gotten very comfortable doing that. Someone is selfish? Narcissist. Your ex was difficult? Narcissist. Your boss doesn't like you? Narcissist. Your mother criticized you? Narcissist. And that's not what we're doing here. Narcissistic personality disorder is a clinical diagnosis with specific criteria. And frankly, whether someone would ever meet that diagnostic threshold may not even be the most relevant question for you. Because you don't need a diagnosis before you're allowed to evaluate behavior. You don't need someone to have a personality disorder before you can say, this dynamic is not healthy. This person retaliates when challenged. I'm being manipulated. This person uses their authority in ways that make me deeply uncomfortable. Or simply, I don't trust this person with power over me anymore. So throughout today's conversation, I care far more about patterns of behavior than clinical labels. And specifically, I want to talk about what happens when someone's need to protect their ego intersects with your vulnerability. Because that's where things can become genuinely dangerous. And that intersection happens more often than people realize, not just in marriages and romantic relationships, but in workplaces and therapeutic relationships and faith communities, in mentorships, and medical settings and families, anywhere someone has authority over someone else. Let's get into it. The person who walks into every room already believing that they're the most important person in it. And yes, that exists. But fragile ego can look completely different from that. And I think the less obvious version is actually far more common and far more confusing to navigate. Sometimes the person with the most fragile ego appears extraordinarily confident until you disagree with them. Then something shifts. Sometimes they appear incredibly generous until you stop expressing gratitude in exactly the way that they need. Sometimes they appear deeply supportive, until your growth and independence means that you no longer need their support. Then suddenly you become a threat rather than a success story. Sometimes they're the helper, the rescuer, the mentor, the person everyone calls wonderful, including people whose judgment you genuinely trust. And sometimes, and this is what makes these dynamics so disorienting, they genuinely believe that's who they are. They're not sitting in a room somewhere planning how to manipulate you. Their identity is so completely invested in being the expert, the good guy, the person everyone needs, the one who understands better than anyone else, that anything contradicting that identity doesn't just feel like a disagreement. It feels like an attack on their fundamental sense of self. You aren't just simply offering a different opinion. In their experience, you are threatening who they believe themselves to be. And that threat produces a very specific set of behaviors. Defensiveness so intense it forecloses any real conversation, positioning themselves as the victim of your challenge rather than the subject of it. Passive aggression, withdrawal, blame shifting, a preoccupation with how they've been wronged that seems so out of proportion to what actually happened. An inability to tolerate criticism without making the criticism itself the problem. And here's the signature move, the one that I think that women are going to recognize immediately when they've experienced it. Instead of you're not allowed to question me, you hear, I can't believe that you would think that of me. Or maybe instead of you have to do what I want, it becomes, after everything I've done for you. Instead of a conversation about the behavior you raise, the conversation becomes entirely about how deeply you've hurt them by raising it. And suddenly you're comforting the person whose behavior that you're trying to address. In a marriage, it probably looks like this. You say, the way you spoke to me last night wasn't okay. And 30 minutes later, you're apologizing because apparently the real problem is that you made him feel like a terrible husband. The original issue just disappeared. Your concern was hijacked, and now you're managing his emotional response to being held accountable. That is fragile ego. And in a romantic relationship, it is exhausting. In a relationship where someone has real authority over your life, career, health, or well-being, it becomes something else entirely. Fragile ego doesn't always announce itself. It sometimes shows up as warmth that curdles into coldness the moment that you stop reflecting back what someone needs to see. It looks like generosity until the generosity is declined. It looks like support until the support is no longer needed. Don't watch for how someone treats you when you agree. Watch for what happens the moment that you don't. Now I want to be really clear about something before we go further. Power itself is not inherently bad. There are situations when we genuinely need someone to have more authority than we do, and that's appropriate. If I'm having surgery, I absolutely want the surgeon to know considerably more about surgery than I do. Please be the expert. That asymmetry is not a problem, it's a requirement. If I'm in school, I expect my professor to know more about the subject that they're teaching. If I'm learning a profession, I expect the person supervising me to have experience and knowledge that I'm still building. If I'm seeing a therapist, I am trusting that person to understand things about therapeutic relationships, ethics, trauma, and human behavior that I may not. None of that imbalance is inherently wrong. In fact, it's necessary for those relationships to function at all. The question isn't whether an imbalance of power exists. The question is what the person with more power believes that power entitles them to. Healthy authority says, because I have more power, I have more responsibility. Unhealthy authority says, because I have more power, I deserve more control. Those are two completely different relationships to power and they produce completely different experiences for the people underneath them. Think about what it feels like to work for a genuinely healthy leader. They have authority. They can make decisions that you agree with, they can evaluate your work and tell you that something needs improvement, they can hold you accountable in ways that are uncomfortable. Healthy leadership doesn't mean everyone gets their way and that no one ever receives critical feedback. But a healthy leader can hear, I disagree, without experiencing it as, oh, you think I'm incompetent. They can hear, I have a concern, without collapsing into, oh, you don't respect me. They can hear no without their nervous system registering it as how dare you. That's not weakness. That's emotional maturity. It's the kind of regulation that is actually required to hold authority over other human beings responsibly. Because if you have power over people, those people are still autonomous. They still have minds and perspectives and values and limits. And if your ego cannot tolerate that, if disagreement reads to you as an attack and challenge reads as betrayal, and I'd like a second opinion reads as a personal rejection, then you are not in a healthy relationship with your own authority. And the people underneath you are not safe. Because sometimes nobody formally gives another person control over you. You give it to them because you need their help. And I think that this is one of the most important and least discussed aspects of this entire conversation. Imagine you go to a doctor. Something is wrong. Maybe you're frightened, maybe you just receive test results that you don't understand. You're sitting across from someone who has spent years studying medicine. You haven't. You don't know what the standard treatment should be. You may not know what alternatives exist. You may not even know what questions you should be asking. So there's this implicit agreement happening in that room. I am vulnerable right now. You know more about this than I do. I am trusting you to use that knowledge in my best interest. That is an enormous amount of power. And it's why the ethical responsibility attached to it is so significant. Therapy is an even more stark example. Think about what people bring into a therapist's office. Things they never told their spouses, things they never said out loud to anyone, their childhood, their shame, their most private fears, the experiences they carry alone because no one else in their life could hold them. And very often, people come into therapy precisely because they no longer trust themselves, because they've been gaslit, because they've experienced abuse, because someone spent years telling them that they were too emotional, too sensitive, too much, or simply wrong about their own reality. And now they're sitting across from someone whose credentials say, I understand human behavior, I know how people work, I can help you. That is extraordinary influence. Used with integrity, that relationship can be genuinely transformative. A skilled ethical therapist can help someone rebuild their relationship with their own perception of reality, can help someone recognize patterns they couldn't see from inside them, can help someone understand what happened to them was not their fault and was not normal. Used irresponsibly, that same relationship can do the exact opposite. It can reinforce the wounds the client came in there to heal. It can deepen the self-doubt, it can create exactly the kind of dependency the therapeutic relationship is ethically designed to avoid. And here's something I think people outside helping professions don't fully appreciate. The client is not responsible for knowing every professional boundary. The professional is. A client hasn't studied therapeutic ethics, they haven't spent years of learning about transference or counter-transference or appropriate self-disclosure or dual relationships. They don't necessarily know whether something happening in the therapeutic relationship is normal. Why would they? That's not their job. That knowledge is precisely why ethical standards exist. Professional boundaries aren't there because helping professionals aren't supposed to care. They're there precisely because they do and because the relationship is not equal. The person with more power carries more responsibility for protecting the person with less. Full stop. So now this is where ego enters the helping relationship. Because helping people feels good. That's not a cynical observation, it's just true. It feels meaningful when someone tells you that you've changed their life. It feels significant to be trusted with someone's most vulnerable truth. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. The problem begins when the person you're helping becomes responsible for maintaining that feeling for you. Because now your emotional needs have entered a space that was supposed to be centered on theirs. The relationship has shifted its purpose without either party necessarily naming it. And this can be particularly confusing because inappropriate dynamics don't always feel uncomfortable at first. Sometimes they feel special. Well, my therapist really gets me. My doctor treats me differently than other patients. My professor says I'm unlike anyone else they've taught. My mentor tells me things they don't share with other people. And listen, warmth isn't unethical. Connection isn't unethical. Genuine care isn't unethical. Meaningful mentorship can be life-changing. The question that cuts through all of that is simple. Who is this serving? If the professional shares something personal, is it because it genuinely serves your therapeutic process? Or are you now taking care of them? If a boundary blurs, is there a legitimate clinical reason? Or does the closeness satisfy something in them? If they make you feel indispensable to them, are they supporting your growth or creating a kind of dependency that keeps you coming back? And one of the clearest tests available for this is what happens when you stop participating in the specialness? What happens when you want another opinion? When you choose a different provider, when you become more independent and no longer need them in the same way. Does the person celebrate that? Do they genuinely want you to fly? Or does the relationship suddenly become cold? Because healthy helping relationships, every ethical one across every profession, should ultimately make you more capable and more autonomous, not more dependent on the helper. If your growth threatens the person who's supposed to be facilitating it, something has gone wrong. Every ethical helping relationship has the same goal to make itself eventually unnecessary. The therapist who is doing their job well is working toward the day that you don't need weekly sessions anymore. The mentor who is doing their job well is working toward the day that you've surpassed what they can teach. If your independence threatens them, ask yourself whose interest the relationship is actually serving. Your autonomy shouldn't injure their ego. Let me make this concrete because I think these dynamics can sound a little abstract until you're standing inside of one. Let's say you disagree with your doctor about a recommended treatment. You say, I'd like a second opinion before I decide. A physician with emotional maturity may have concerns about your decision. They may explain clearly and firmly why they believe their recommendation is the right one. They may express genuine worry, but your request for another perspective should not become a personal betrayal. It should not produce coldness or a conversation about how insulting you've been. Your desire to be informed about your own health is not an attack on their competence. And a doctor who experiences it as one is giving you important information about how they relate to their authority. Or let's say you tell your therapist, I don't know if this approach is working for me. A healthy therapist will meet that with some genuine curiosity. What isn't working? What do you need that you're not getting? Should the treatment plan change? Would a different clinician possibly be better fit for where you are right now? None of those are failures. That's what client autonomy looks like in practice. A therapist who becomes defensive, withdrawn, or who subtly makes you feel guilty for raising the concern is not handling that well. And if that therapist has been your primary emotional support, if you've shared things with them that you haven't shared with anyone else in your life, that defensiveness can hit in a very specific way. It can make you feel like you've hurt someone who is supposed to be helping you, which is an extraordinary reversal of what that relationship is for. The same principle extends to supervisors, teachers, coaches, managers, clergy, community leaders, anyone entrusted with authority over other people. The person underneath that authority should be able to ask why, should be able to raise a concern respectfully, should be able to say that something doesn't feel appropriate without having to calculate what that honesty might cost them. And here's what I'm gonna say clearly about that. If people beneath you are afraid to disagree with you because of what you might do to them, you don't actually have their respect. You have their compliance. And I know that distinction can be uncomfortable to sit with, but it matters enormously because compliance without genuine respect is not leadership, it is control. And the person operating under that control knows the difference, even if they've never had the language for it and don't feel comfortable saying it. Sometimes, honestly, we are difficult. Sometimes we communicate poorly, sometimes we're wrong, sometimes we do owe an apology. I'm not interested in creating a framework where every conflict becomes proof that the other person is toxic and we're completely blameless. That would be its own form of not looking honestly at ourselves, and I think we've all seen how that plays out. But I think it's worth asking a very specific question. When did I become difficult? Was I difficult when I was doing everything you wanted? Was I difficult when I was absorbing the tension? When I was saying yes? When I was keeping quiet? When I was making myself smaller so you could be more comfortable? Was I difficult then? Or did I suddenly become difficult when I became difficult to control? That's not an accusation. It's a question. But it's an important one. Because the timing of when someone's assessment of you starts to change tells you something. If you were wonderful for months and then became a problem the week you disagreed with them, something happened that week worth paying attention to. And I want to be precise about something here because I think it's real easy to misunderstand. Healthy people don't automatically like your limits. I want to emphasize that clearly because I think there's a common misconception that if someone is emotionally mature, they'll receive every boundary with gracious acceptance. They won't always. Someone can truly be disappointed by your limit and still be a healthy person. They can disagree with your decision. They can think you're making a mistake. They can express frustration. Healthy conflict allows all of that. What healthy conflict doesn't do is transform you. It doesn't take a person who is trusted, competent, loyal, and wonderful and retroactively make them into someone suspicious, difficult, and ungrateful because they said no once. Your character doesn't change when your compliance does. And a person who experiences that way is telling you something important about the conditions their approval has always been operating under. In relationships where the power dynamic is significant, where someone has real authority over your life, your career, your health, your faith, your professional future, the stakes of this are much bigger. Because now we're not just talking about a relationship that has become difficult. We're talking about potential retaliation. And retaliation doesn't always look like people expect. You didn't become difficult. You became harder to control. Those are not the same thing. And a person whose opinion of you changes the moment your compliance does was never actually seeing you. They were seeing what you gave them. The character they praised was always conditional on your cooperation. When someone with a fragile ego feels rejected, embarrassed, questioned, or exposed, and they have all the power, they often have mechanisms available to restore their sense of control that a peer simply doesn't have. Sometimes the retaliation is obvious. You lose an opportunity, you're excluded. Someone who previously praised your competence starts questioning it publicly. A recommendation gets quietly withdrawn. An introduction that was promised doesn't happen. Sometimes it's explicit, and sometimes it's just a slow, subtle withdrawal of access. And sometimes it's the narrative. Because the person with more authority, more connections, more credibility often gets to tell the story first. And when they tell it, the story isn't usually, oh, well, I reacted badly when someone I held authority over stopped complying with me. The story is about you, your character, your motives, the way you misunderstood the situation, the ways you were difficult, ungrateful, inappropriate, unstable. And because they got there first, because they have their relationships you may not have, because their version of events travels through networks where their credibility is established, you can find yourself spending an enormous amount of energy trying to correct a record that you didn't even know was being written. So I want to give some practical guidance here because I think this is where people make decisions that cost them more than the original situation did. If there are formal channels available, an HR process, a licensing board, a grievance procedure, a legal avenue, use them. Document everything relevant. Dates, times, what was said, what was communicated in writing. Facts matter in formal processes. Use the appropriate channels when they exist and when the situation warrants them. But emotionally, and this is the part I want you to hold on to, be very careful not to spend the next two years of your life trying to win a trial that's happening inside of someone else's head. You cannot control every narrative about you. You cannot make everyone understand. You cannot reach every person who has heard a version of events that isn't accurate. And sometimes the person telling the story needs you to be the villain because the alternative would require them to examine themselves in a way that they're not capable of right now. You cannot force that examination. No amount of explaining, defending, or presenting evidence in the court of mutual acquaintances will produce it. And the attempt can become its own tract, keeping you tethered to the person and the situation long after the healthiest version of moving forward would have had you walking away. Correct what needs to be corrected. Protect what needs to be protected. And then, with whatever energy remains, put yourself back at the center of your own story. What did I say? Was my tone off? Should I have handled that differently? Was I too direct? Did I misread the situation? Should I apologize? Did I contribute to this? Could I have done this any better? I do this. I know a lot of you do this. And I actually think asking those questions can be genuinely healthy. We should be willing to examine ourselves. We should be willing to say, I could have handled that differently and mean it. That is integrity. But there's a point where self-reflection becomes something else, where it becomes self-interrogation, an internal process that not actually looks for truth, it's looking for evidence of your own guilt, where you are prosecuting yourself in a trial with no defense attorney and a predetermined verdict. And if you have a history of people pleasing, self-abandonment, walking on eggshells, or being in relationships where someone else's feelings became your responsibility, you may be especially vulnerable to this. Because your automatic question of any conflict is, what did I do to cause this? You reach for self-blame before you've even looked at the situation. Not because you're a masochist, because you were trained to. Because somewhere along the way, you learn that your discomfort is always a sign of your own error. So I want to offer you a different question. Not instead of asking whether you contributed to something, but alongside it. What changed when I stopped behaving the way this person expected me to? Sit with that one. Really sit with it. Because maybe the answer is nothing meaningful changed. I genuinely mishandled this and I need to own that. And if that's true, own it. Repair it. That's integrity. That's the grown-up version of taking responsibility for your actual errors. But maybe you realize the only thing that changed was my compliance. I disagreed. I asked a question. I said no to something. I stopped giving them the response that they were accustomed to. And that produced this. In which case, the self-interrogation is not serving you. It's serving the narrative that you're the problem. The goal isn't to automatically decide that you're innocent. The goal is to stop automatically deciding that you're guilty before the investigation has even begun. You deserve the same honest evaluation you'd give anyone else. Not harsher, not softer, the same. So I want to offer something that I think is genuinely useful as a way of evaluating the people in your life who have power over you. Not a test you administer explicitly, just a frame for paying attention to what's already in front of you. Watch how someone treats a person who cannot do anything for them. Not the important people they're cultivating, not the people they want something from, the person in the room who has nothing to offer. Watch how they treat someone with less status when no one who matters is observing. Watch how they respond when they're publicly wrong about something. Watch what happens when someone underneath them asks why. Watch how they behave when a person they have authority over starts to succeed beyond what that authority can contain. Watch what happens when someone says no to them for the first time. Because power doesn't automatically corrupt every person who has it. There are people in positions of authority who become better for it, more careful, more responsible, more aware of the weight that they're carrying. Power, used well, produces humility. It produces accountability. It produces the recognition that what you do affects other people in ways that require you to take yourself seriously as a moral actor. But power also gives people opportunities to reveal what they believe they're entitled to. And those revelations don't usually happen when everything is comfortable and everybody is agreeable. They happen at the edges, when something doesn't go the expected way, when someone pushes back, when the usual dynamics stop working. That's when you see what's actually there. Which is why I think the most useful question about anyone in authority over you isn't, is this person nice? Nice is easy. Almost anyone could sustain nice under favorable conditions. The more important question is, what happens when this person doesn't get what they want from me? The answer to that question tells you more about a person's character than years of pleasant interaction. I'm recording this one, angry. There are things happening in my own life right now, things that I have been sitting with for weeks that have forced me to think very hard about power, about what it means when someone in authority believes their position entitles them to your compliance, about the specific experience of being someone who has done everything right, who has brought genuine integrity to something, who has been professional and careful and honest, and finding yourself on the wrong end of someone's ego because you stopped accommodating them. I'm not going to tell that story here. Some stories aren't mine alone to tell. Some involve other people's privacy, some involve professional responsibilities that matter to me more than temporary satisfaction of telling everyone exactly why I'm angry. And having a microphone doesn't entitle me to publicly expose every person I disagree with, regardless of how wronged I feel. That's not integrity, that is using a platform irresponsibly. But here's what I've realized. I am entitled to use what I'm learning from this. I can take the anger, and it's real anger, the kind that keeps you up at night composing the speech you'll never give. I can take the disappointment of watching someone reveal themselves to be smaller than you believe them to be. I can take the confusion of the early days when you keep turning it over and over trying to figure out what you did wrong before you realize the answer is you did nothing wrong except stop being easy. And I can take all of that and turn it into something useful. Because maybe someone listening right now is sitting in an office wondering why the person who once thought she was exceptional suddenly seems determined to undermine her. Maybe someone has a parent who adores them completely until they say no. Maybe someone is in a faith community where questions are welcomed until the questions are about the person asking everyone to have faith in him. Maybe someone has a doctor whose confident manner turns into condescension the moment she asks for a second opinion. Maybe someone has a therapist who has somehow made the therapeutic relationship more about their own needs than her healing. Maybe someone is married to a man who says he loves her independence. Right up until that independence means he doesn't get his way. I made this episode for all of those women and for the younger version of myself who spent years trying to figure out what she had done wrong in situations where the answer was simply that she had finally started expecting to be treated with dignity. A person's reaction to losing control of you is not proof that you did something wrong. I want to say that again. A person's reaction to losing control of you is not proof that you did something wrong. It is proof that they were accustomed to having it. Everybody recognizes your integrity, the truth comes out, the good people win. The person with the fragile ego has a meaningful reckoning and becomes someone more self-aware. That would be a wonderful ending. It's not always what happens. Sometimes doing the right thing costs you something real. Sometimes saying no costs you access to something that you valued. Sometimes speaking up changes a relationship that mattered to you. Sometimes someone you respected genuinely disappoints you and you can't unlearn what that disappointment revealed. Sometimes you lose an opportunity. Sometimes you leave a community you loved. Sometimes you discover that a relationship that you believed was built on mutual respect was always more contingent on your compliance than you knew. And that genuinely hurts. Especially when the thing that you're losing mattered to you. Especially when you didn't want it to end this way, especially when part of you is still wondering whether there was something you could have done differently that would have produced a different outcome. But I think there's a question worth holding alongside that pain. What would it cost you to stay? What would it cost you to keep pretending that you don't see what you see? What would it cost you to make yourself smaller so someone else can remain more comfortable? What would it cost to keep betraying your own values so a fragile ego doesn't have to encounter a limit? What would it cost to keep calling fear respect, calling compliance, loyalty, calling blurred boundaries, closeness, calling retaliation, accountability, calling someone's need for control leadership? Because eventually the cost of keeping the door open becomes higher than the cost of walking through it. Not necessarily because you've become fearless, not because you don't care what you're losing. Sometimes you have a great deal to lose. You just finally realize that you have yourself to lose too, and she has to start making the list. If you are dealing with someone who has authority over you right now, I don't want this episode to become a framework where every conflict is automatically evidence of abuse of power. Look at the pattern, look at the context, get outside perspective from people who know the situation. Document things when appropriate and use formal channels when they exist, when the situation warrants them. Talk to people you trust and ask yourself the questions that actually matter. Can I disagree with this person safely? Can I ask questions without calculating the cost? Can I have limits without those limits becoming a permanent mark against my character? Can I seek another opinion, another approach, another relationship without it being treated as betrayal? Can I grow beyond this situation and still be treated with dignity by this person? Can they admit when they're wrong? Can they repair after conflict? Can my autonomy and their authority coexist without one of them having to disappear? Because that's what healthy power should protect, your autonomy, not their ego. And if you're realizing that you've spent years making yourself smaller around powerful personalities, whether in your marriage, your family, your workplace, a therapeutic relationship, a faith community, or somewhere else entirely, that's exactly the work we do inside the 12-week programs. Not learning how to win every power struggle, not becoming impossible to hurt, learning how to trust yourself enough to recognize when something isn't right and stop abandoning yourself just because speaking up might make someone with authority over you more uncomfortable. If this episode made you think of someone who needs to hear it, please send it to her. Because maybe she's been trying to figure out why someone who once praised her has suddenly made it their project to discredit her. Maybe nothing about her changed. Maybe what changed was she finally said no. And she needs to know that that is not evidence of a character flaw. It is evidence that she has one. Until next time, you don't have to become smaller to make someone else's ego feel bigger. You don't have to surrender your judgment because someone else has far more authority. You don't have to call disrespect mentorship, and you don't have to call fear respect. You don't have to call compliance loyalty. Sometimes integrity is expensive. Sometimes saying no costs you something very real. Sometimes refusing to play along closes a door that you desperately wanted to stay open, and that hurts. But there are some doors that eventually become too expensive to keep open when the price of admission is you know, I think that's a good idea.