I wanted peace. Instead, I got a neighbor who declared war.

We’d just moved into a quiet cul-de-sac that felt like a fresh start, garden dreams, a big yard for a swing set and pool, and kids playing on the porch. What I didn’t expect was the woman next door, who was looking for more neighbors to declare war on.

At first, I thought she was quirky. Then came the strange comments. The false reports. The screaming anytime we walked outside. Code enforcement, police, firefighters, and animal control officers started showing up regularly to investigate bogus complaints filed by her. I began documenting everything: dates, photos, conversations. Not to retaliate, but to protect my sanity and safety.

And through it all, one phrase kept echoing: Love thy neighbor.

But what if thy neighbor becomes unpredictable and unsafe for you, your children, and your guests?

As a Christian woman, I was familiar with the verses: Bless those who curse you. Do good to those who hate you. But I was exhausted. My children were scared. My nights were filled with dread, not peace.

I started wondering if I was failing spiritually because I couldn’t “love” her in the way I thought I was supposed to. The internal pressure I put on myself was immense. I assumed love meant softness. Smiling. Avoiding confrontation. Ignoring injustice. Letting things go again and again and again.

But then I opened Scripture and noticed something: Jesus didn’t let everyone walk all over Him. He flipped tables. He withdrew from hostile crowds. He said “no” more than we often notice. His love was fierce and truthful.

He turned down Satan’s offer of instant satisfaction and influence—choosing hunger over compromise and obedience over applause. He told His disciples “no” when they got puffed up with pride or tried to take vengeance into their own hands. He set boundaries that confused people. He walked away when the crowd wanted to crown Him king, and He silenced the hype when people tried to make Him a miracle vending machine.

And when a ruler tried to flatter Him with “Good Teacher,” Jesus didn’t bask in the compliment. He redirected the credit to His Father and reminded everyone who the glory belonged to. That wasn’t harsh. That was holy.

His “no” wasn’t unloving. It was wise. His boundaries weren’t bitterness. They were obedience.

I realized I wasn’t failing at love just because I didn’t bend to every demand or tolerate mistreatment. I was learning to love like Jesus did, sometimes with compassion, sometimes with confrontation, and often with a clear, prayerful, and well-discerned no.

I’d been equating Christian love with people-pleasing.

And people-pleasing is a heavy idol. It asks for your peace in exchange for someone else’s comfort and calls that holiness.

That season with my neighbor pushed me to reevaluate everything I believed about love, boundaries, and obedience. I wasn’t being asked to lose my mind or my physical well-being in the name of niceness. I was being invited to love God first—and to trust that He cared about my safety too.

So I began praying differently. I stopped asking God to “fix” her and started asking Him to strengthen me. I set boundaries without apology. I stopped explaining myself to someone who didn’t want peace. I chose to be kind without being passive.

And slowly, I found freedom.

Loving your neighbor doesn’t mean subjecting your family to danger. It doesn’t mean staying silent when injustice rises up like a weed through concrete. Love isn’t always quiet. Sometimes it’s a firm no. Sometimes it’s city records, documentation, police intervention and then making tacos for your kids.

Jesus taught us to love with truth and grace. And truth without boundaries isn’t love. It’s self-erasure.

It was a long four years of living next to chaos and deciding what to do about it. But a lesson stayed with me: real love is anchored in God, not guilt. And His kind of love makes room for wholeness.

So if you’re living next to someone who makes your life miserable, and you’re wondering if God expects you to just “take it,” hear this: He doesn’t. He sees it. And He’s not asking you to be a doormat. He’s asking you to be His. Courageous, grounded, and yes—even boundary-honoring.

You can love your neighbor.

And you can also love your mind.