As therapists, we often talk about relationships: between partners, between parents and children, between people and the world around them. But the most enduring relationship—the one that shapes all others—is the relationship we have with ourselves.

This internal relationship is not created in a vacuum. It begins early, forming in the quiet or chaotic moments of our upbringing. From the way we were held, spoken to, ignored, celebrated, criticized, or soothed, we began to build a model of how we should be treated—and more importantly, what we deserve.

When children grow up in environments where love, attention, or safety are conditional, they often internalize the belief that they must earn good things. They come to understand worthiness not as an inherent trait, but as a fluctuating currency. This is the root of what might be called a psychological economic system: one in which the deprived must convince themselves that they deserve before they can even pursue or receive.

In this system, “deserving” becomes a prerequisite for effort. A child who is neglected or emotionally deprived may develop the belief, “If I am good enough, perfect enough, helpful enough—then maybe I will get what I need.” This isn’t just about seeking approval. It’s about survival. Over time, this logic becomes embedded in the adult psyche. We hustle not only for promotions or praise, but for love, rest, permission to take up space. Our internal monologue might sound like: “Have I done enough to deserve rest?” “Am I kind enough to be loved?” “Have I suffered enough to feel better now?”

In this way, deserving becomes the entitlement of the deprived. This term I first heard from Esther Perel-an icon in my field.  For those who grew up with chronic emotional deprivation, the idea of simply having—love, safety, ease—feels foreign or even dangerous. They need to believe they’ve earned it in order to allow themselves to reach for it. In healthier systems, entitlement is not a dirty word—it means knowing you’re worthy of basic emotional needs being met. But for the deprived, entitlement must be justified through effort, perfectionism, sacrifice, or suffering.

What’s so tricky about this psychological economy is that it’s invisible. It can quietly govern how someone navigates relationships, parenting, ambition, or even therapy. A person might not realize they are still working from the belief: “I must prove I’m worth healing.” And so, self-compassion can feel indulgent. Receiving support can feel shameful. Rest can feel like failure.

But like all economic systems, this one is constructed—it can be deconstructed too. Therapy is often a place where we begin that dismantling. We start to recognize how deeply we’ve internalized the belief that worth is transactional. And slowly, we begin to replace it with something truer and gentler: that we are worthy because we are human. Not because we performed, pleased, or proved.

This is the quiet revolution of healing. It’s a shift from earning our needs to honoring them. From measuring our value to remembering it.

And in doing so, we begin to change not only our relationship with ourselves—but the entire emotional economy we live in.