EsotericErin

Tag: Feminism

  • You Can Mean What You Say Without Needing Someone Else to Agree

    There’s a particular kind of frustration that comes with knowing what you believe and not being able to get someone else to see it.

    You explain what you mean. You offer an example. You try a different way of putting it, hoping that perhaps this time the words will land a little differently.

    You clarify what you meant by that thing you said three sentences ago.

    You explain why it matters to you.

    And when the other person still doesn’t agree, you find yourself trying again.

    Not necessarily because you think they’re being unreasonable. Sometimes you just want to be understood. You want them to see what you see, to recognize what feels so clear to you, to understand why you’ve come to believe what you believe.

    And there’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting that.

    Being understood can feel like a kind of connection. It can be a relief to discover that someone else sees what you’ve been trying to articulate, that something you’ve struggled to put into words makes sense to another person.

    But I wonder what happens when being understood quietly becomes something we need.

    When sharing what we believe turns into trying to get someone else to agree with us.

    When we keep explaining, not because we’ve thought of something new to say, but because we’re not quite ready to leave the conversation without the response we hoped for.

    Sometimes we aren’t trying to share a perspective anymore. We’re trying to produce a particular outcome.

    We want the other person to see it our way. To understand why we think what we think. To recognize that we’ve considered this carefully, that we have reasons for our position, that we’re not simply saying something without thought.

    And perhaps, underneath all that explaining, there’s a hope that if they finally understand us, we can stop feeling the distance between what we believe and what they believe.

    But understanding doesn’t always lead to agreement.

    Someone can understand your reasoning and still reach a different conclusion. They can recognize why something matters to you without valuing it in the same way. They can listen carefully, take your perspective seriously, and still decide that they see things differently.

    And sometimes, no matter how clearly you explain yourself, someone simply won’t see what you see.

    I think that’s a difficult thing to make room for, especially when we’re talking about something we care deeply about.

    Because when something feels important to us, it can be hard to understand how another person could look at the same situation and arrive somewhere else.

    We might assume that if we could just explain it properly, they’d understand.

    If we could find the right words, give the right example, or help them see the part they’re missing, perhaps we’d finally arrive at the same place.

    Sometimes a conversation does change when we find a better way to express ourselves. Sometimes we discover that we’ve misunderstood each other, or that there’s something important we hadn’t considered.

    It’s worth making room for that possibility.

    But not every disagreement is a misunderstanding waiting to be resolved.

    Sometimes we understand each other well enough. We simply don’t agree.

    And perhaps that’s where we have to decide what we’re asking of the conversation.

    Are we sharing something because we want to offer another perspective? Are we explaining what we believe because we want someone to understand us better?

    Or have we started measuring the success of what we’ve said by whether the other person agrees?

    I think those can be surprisingly easy things to confuse.

    We might tell ourselves we’re just trying to explain, when really we’re finding it difficult to let the other person leave with a different opinion.

    We might keep offering reasons, examples, and explanations because their disagreement feels like an unresolved problem.

    And sometimes we might even begin to soften what we believe, not because our understanding has changed, but because we want to make it easier for the other person to accept.

    We find ourselves looking for a version of our own perspective that will be more agreeable, less challenging, easier to hear.

    There’s a difference between communicating with care and making our beliefs palatable enough that nobody has to disagree with us.

    We can be thoughtful about how we express ourselves. We can consider our audience, choose our words carefully, and remain open to the possibility that we’ve missed something.

    But we don’t have to make agreement the condition that allows us to stand behind what we believe.

    We can mean what we say even when someone else doesn’t share our view.

    We can explain why something matters to us without needing the other person to care about it in the same way.

    We can offer what we’ve learned without deciding what someone else ought to do with it.

    And we can allow another person to make their own choices, even when we’d choose differently.

    I think this matters because sharing what we believe is part of how we connect with other people. It’s how we offer our experiences, our questions, our ideas, and the things we’ve come to understand.

    We don’t have to keep those things to ourselves simply because we can’t guarantee how they’ll be received.

    We can speak honestly. We can offer a perspective that matters to us. We can explain why we’ve come to see something the way we do.

    And then we can leave room for the other person to have their own relationship with what we’ve said.

    They might agree.

    They might disagree.

    They might recognize something useful in what we’ve shared but interpret it differently. They might carry one small part of the conversation with them and leave the rest behind.

    They might not find it useful at all.

    We don’t always get to know what someone else will take from an exchange, or whether it will change anything for them.

    And I don’t think we need to.

    There’s something freeing about allowing a conversation to be a conversation, rather than treating it as a task with a particular result we’re responsible for producing.

    We can contribute something without controlling what comes of it.

    We can offer a perspective without needing it to become someone else’s perspective.

    We can be clear about what we believe without needing to make it universal.

    This doesn’t mean we have to become indifferent to whether people understand us. Of course it matters. There are conversations where being understood is important, where we need to clarify our intentions, explain the impact of someone’s actions, or work toward a shared understanding.

    And there are times when continuing the conversation is worthwhile because something important remains unresolved.

    But not every difference needs to be settled.

    Not every disagreement means we’ve failed to communicate.

    And not every person we care about needs to arrive at the same conclusion for us to remain connected to them.

    Sometimes we can care about someone and disagree with them.

    Sometimes we can believe something strongly without needing to make it the belief everyone else lives by.

    Sometimes we can say what we mean, listen to what comes back, and recognize that we’ve reached the point where there’s nothing more we need to prove.

    The other person gets to decide what they think.

    We get to decide what we think.

    And neither of us has to surrender that simply to make the conversation feel complete.

    I think there’s a kind of trust in that.

    Trusting ourselves enough to express what we believe without needing agreement to confirm that we were right to say it.

    Trusting other people enough to leave room for them to think, interpret, and choose for themselves.

    Trusting that a difference in perspective doesn’t always need to be repaired.

    We can still be curious. We can still ask questions. We can still change our minds when something genuinely changes our understanding.

    And we can let a conversation affect us without requiring it to end in consensus.

    Maybe we don’t need to measure the value of what we share by how many people agree with us.

    Maybe sometimes the value is simply that we expressed something honestly, gave another person something to consider, and allowed them the freedom to decide what it meant to them.

    We don’t have to convince everyone.

    We don’t have to keep explaining until someone sees it our way.

    We don’t have to take responsibility for what another person chooses to do with what we’ve shared.

    We can mean what we say.

    We can care about how we say it.

    And we can leave room for someone else to see things differently.

    You can share what you believe with others without needing them to agree.

  • When Someone Else Sounds More Certain Than You


    Sometimes you can know something perfectly well until someone else tells you you’re wrong.

    You remember what happened. You know what you meant. You’ve thought about how you feel, what you need, or why something matters to you.

    And then someone else offers their version.

    They sound certain. They explain it differently. They tell you what really happened, what you actually meant, or why you shouldn’t feel the way you do.

    And suddenly, something you felt reasonably sure about starts to feel less solid.

    You go back over the conversation in your head.

    Did I misunderstand?

    Am I being unfair?

    Maybe they have a point.

    Maybe I’m making too much of it.

    Maybe I should think about it a little more.

    Sometimes, of course, we should. Other people can notice things we’ve missed. They can offer information we didn’t have or perspectives we hadn’t considered. Being willing to reconsider our understanding is part of being human.

    But I wonder how often we begin questioning ourselves not because someone has given us a good reason to, but because they’ve expressed their own perspective with enough confidence that we start treating it as more credible than ours.

    As though certainty itself were evidence.

    I think a lot of women know this feeling.

    We’ve been taught, in all sorts of ways, to consider other people’s feelings. To be accommodating. To give people the benefit of the doubt. To question whether we’re being too sensitive, too demanding, too difficult.

    We’ve learned to explain ourselves carefully, to soften what we mean, to anticipate how our words might be received.

    And sometimes, before we’ve even finished expressing what we think, we’re already making room for the possibility that we’re wrong.

    Meanwhile, someone else can say the same thing with absolute conviction, and their certainty is taken as a sign that they know what they’re talking about.

    Sometimes they do.

    But sometimes they’re simply more comfortable being certain.

    And those are not the same thing.

    Someone can speak forcefully without having considered every angle. They can be confident in their interpretation without knowing what you’ve experienced. They can have an answer for your feelings without actually understanding them.

    Their confidence doesn’t automatically make them more knowledgeable about your life than you are.

    And yet, it’s surprisingly easy to let someone else’s certainty become the measure against which we judge our own.

    We start looking to them to confirm what we already suspected.

    We explain our decisions until they make sense to someone else.

    We keep revisiting something we’ve already thought through because another person doesn’t agree with us.

    We might even find ourselves asking for advice when what we’re really hoping for is permission to trust what we already know.

    I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting reassurance. We all need other people sometimes. We need conversation, perspective, and the experience of being understood.

    But there’s a difference between inviting someone into our thinking and making their agreement a condition of trusting ourselves.

    One leaves room for us to learn something.

    The other leaves us waiting for someone else to tell us that we’re allowed to believe what we believe.

    And I think that difference matters.

    Because your own truth isn’t limited to the opinions you hold or the conclusions you reach.

    Sometimes it’s what you know about your own experience.

    It’s knowing that something hurt, even if someone else thinks you shouldn’t have been hurt by it.

    It’s knowing what you meant, even if someone else has decided they know your intentions better than you do.

    It’s recognizing that a situation isn’t working for you, even if someone else thinks you have no reason to complain.

    It’s understanding what matters to you, what you need, what you’re willing to accept, and what no longer feels right.

    Other people can offer their interpretations. They can disagree with your choices. They can tell you how they experienced the same situation, and sometimes that information will change how you see it.

    But they cannot automatically replace your experience with theirs.

    Someone else’s understanding of what happened doesn’t erase what you lived through.

    Someone else’s priorities don’t determine what matters to you.

    And someone else’s certainty doesn’t mean you have to abandon your own perspective.

    This doesn’t mean we have to treat our understanding as infallible.

    We can be mistaken. We can misunderstand someone. We can discover that we’ve overlooked something important or held onto an interpretation that no longer fits what we know.

    We can listen, reconsider, and change our minds.

    But we can do those things without assuming we’re wrong simply because someone else sounds more certain that we are.

    We can ask ourselves whether they’ve offered something worth considering, rather than automatically treating their confidence as proof.

    We can be curious about their perspective without immediately making it our own.

    We can take time to think about what they’ve said and notice what we still believe after we’ve had that time.

    And we can allow ourselves to disagree without needing to prove that the other person is wrong.

    Sometimes two people understand a situation differently. Sometimes they have different needs or values. Sometimes they remember the same conversation in different ways.

    Not every disagreement needs a verdict.

    And not every difference in perspective needs to be resolved before we’re allowed to trust our own judgment.

    I think this is part of what self-trust asks of us.

    Not that we become so certain of ourselves that nobody else’s opinion can reach us.

    Not that we stop listening, questioning, or learning.

    But that we stop treating our own understanding as the least reliable one in the room.

    That we give ourselves the same consideration we so readily extend to other people.

    That when someone challenges us, we can pause and ask whether there’s something useful in what they’re saying without immediately putting our own experience on trial.

    We can make room for another person’s perspective without making ours disappear.

    And perhaps we can learn to recognize the difference between being genuinely uncertain about something and feeling uncertain because someone else has decided we ought to be.

    Those feelings can look remarkably similar from the inside.

    But they don’t always call for the same response.

    Sometimes we need to think something through again.

    Sometimes we need to hear someone else’s perspective.

    And sometimes we need to remember that we’ve already thought about this. That we have reasons for what we believe. That we know things about our own lives that someone else cannot know simply by speaking with conviction.

    We don’t have to keep reopening every question just because someone else has a different answer.

    We don’t have to explain ourselves until everyone understands.

    And we don’t have to wait for someone else’s agreement before we’re allowed to trust what we know.

    Maybe trusting your own truth isn’t about being certain that you’re right.

    Maybe it’s about knowing that your perspective deserves to be part of the conversation, even when someone else’s is louder.

    You can listen without disappearing into someone else’s version of events.

    You can reconsider without assuming you were wrong.

    You can change your mind when something genuinely changes your understanding.

    And you can hold onto what you know, even when someone else doesn’t see it the same way.

    You don’t have to abandon your own truth just because someone else is more certain of theirs.

  • Maybe You’re Not Supposed to Be Over It Yet

    There’s a strange thing that happens after something difficult.

    You feel it.

    Maybe you cry. Maybe you get angry. Maybe you finally admit that something hurt more than you wanted it to.

    And then, eventually, you have a good day.

    You make breakfast. Answer some emails. Laugh at something your kid says. Put the laundry away. Maybe you even forget about the thing for several hours.

    And because you’re functioning again, a little voice can start suggesting that you must be finished.

    Okay. I’m fine now.

    I should be over this.

    But what if those aren’t the same thing?

    What if being able to carry on with your life doesn’t mean the thing is finished with you?

    I think we sometimes imagine difficult feelings as having a tidy beginning, middle, and end.

    Something happens.

    We feel the feelings.

    We work through them.

    We learn whatever we’re supposed to learn.

    And then we put the whole thing neatly behind us and get back to normal.

    But I’m not sure people work that way.

    Sometimes something matters and then becomes quieter.

    It moves from the middle of your attention to the back of your mind.

    You’re making dinner and suddenly you remember something someone said three days ago.

    You’re driving home and realize you’re still angry.

    You’re folding towels and it occurs to you that you’re sad about something you thought you’d already dealt with.

    Or maybe nothing happens at all.

    Maybe you simply notice, Huh. I guess I’m not quite finished with that.

    That doesn’t necessarily mean you need to do anything.

    You don’t have to pull the feeling back into the foreground and start dissecting it.

    You don’t have to journal about it.

    You don’t have to figure out what it means.

    You don’t have to make a plan.

    You don’t even have to decide whether you’re still allowed to feel it.

    Sometimes something can sit on the backburner while you get on with your life.

    I think we can mistake that for being stuck.

    But there’s a difference between being unable to move forward and moving forward while something is still settling.

    Those aren’t opposites.

    You can have a genuinely good day while something in you is still tender.

    You can laugh and still be grieving.

    You can feel relieved and still be angry.

    You can enjoy yourself without having resolved everything that happened.

    You can even feel better without being over it.

    Maybe that’s part of why I like the idea of a backburner.

    Not everything needs to be cooking at full heat all the time.

    Some things can simmer quietly.

    They can exist without demanding your full attention.

    And sometimes, after you’ve had a little distance, you understand something you couldn’t see when the feeling was taking up the whole room.

    Sometimes you realize what mattered.

    Sometimes you realize what didn’t.

    Sometimes you discover that the thing you thought was about one small moment was actually about a pattern.

    Sometimes you decide you’re ready to put it down.

    And sometimes you don’t.

    I don’t think self-trust requires us to know which one it’s going to be in advance.

    It might simply mean trusting ourselves enough not to force the ending.

    Because moving forward isn’t always the same as moving on.

    Sometimes moving forward looks remarkably ordinary.

    You make the coffee.

    You answer the email.

    You pick up the groceries.

    You laugh.

    And somewhere in the background, something is still finding its place.

    That’s okay.

    You don’t have to return to who you were before something happened just because you’re able to function again.

    You don’t have to put everything behind you to keep going.

    You can keep living your life while something is still settling inside you.

    Maybe you can let today be today.

    And if it comes back tomorrow?

    You can come back, too.

  • Maybe You Don’t Need to Feel Better Yet

    I have a tendency to want to move on.

    Not necessarily because I don’t feel things deeply. Quite the opposite, actually. I can feel something very deeply and then almost immediately start looking for the way out.

    What’s the lesson here?

    What am I supposed to do next?

    How do I make this useful?

    How do I stop feeling like this?

    There is a certain appeal to those questions. They give us something to do.

    And sometimes doing something is exactly what we need.

    But sometimes something has happened and the appropriate response is simply:

    That really sucked.

    You failed the exam.

    Someone broke your heart.

    You didn’t get the job.

    A friendship ended.

    You were treated unfairly.

    Something you wanted didn’t happen.

    Someone you trusted hurt you.

    Sometimes there isn’t a silver lining.

    Sometimes there isn’t a lesson yet.

    Sometimes you’re just sad.

    Or angry.

    Or disappointed.

    And I think we’re often much less comfortable with that than we pretend to be.

    We’re very good at talking about feelings as though they’re problems waiting for solutions.

    Anger needs to be processed.

    Sadness needs to be worked through.

    Grief needs to be moved past.

    Disappointment needs perspective.

    And certainly, there are times when those things need attention. Feelings can tell us something important. They can change the way we understand ourselves, other people, and what has happened to us.

    But I don’t think every feeling needs to immediately become productive.

    Sometimes you need to wallow.

    I mean that affectionately.

    If someone breaks your heart, maybe you need a few days of terrible music, ugly crying, and telling your friend the same story for the sixth time.

    If you didn’t get something you worked incredibly hard for, maybe you need to be disappointed before you start figuring out what’s next.

    If someone has hurt you, maybe you need to be angry before you can decide what you want to do about it.

    I don’t think wallowing means giving up.

    I think sometimes it’s the opposite.

    It’s acknowledging that something mattered enough to hurt.

    There is a difference between feeling something and letting it run your life indefinitely.

    The first is human.

    The second is where we can become stuck.

    And I don’t think anyone else gets to decide exactly where that line is for you.

    There isn’t a universal number of days you’re allowed to be heartbroken.

    There isn’t a socially acceptable amount of time to grieve a friendship.

    There isn’t a deadline where disappointment is supposed to have become wisdom.

    Some things take longer than others.

    Some things seem finished until a completely ordinary Tuesday reminds you that they aren’t.

    And that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve gone backwards.

    It might simply mean there’s something there you haven’t finished feeling.

    This is where I think about meditation.

    For years, I thought meditation was about keeping my mind focused for twenty minutes. My mind would wander, I’d notice it, and then I’d berate myself for having wandered in the first place.

    Which was particularly unhelpful once I understood that I was living with untreated ADHD.

    Then someone explained it differently to me.

    Your mind wanders.

    You notice.

    You bring it back.

    And then it wanders again.

    The return is part of the practice.

    That was a genuinely cool revelation for me.

    I hadn’t been failing at meditation. I’d misunderstood what I was supposed to be practising.

    And I think feelings can work a little like that.

    You can spend an afternoon feeling miserable about something and then laugh at a stupid video.

    You can have a good day and still be grieving.

    You can think you’re finally over it and then find yourself crying in the shower three weeks later.

    You can decide you need a break from thinking about it and then come back when you have the capacity.

    None of those things erase the others.

    You don’t have to stay inside a feeling all day for it to be real.

    You don’t have to keep yourself miserable to prove that something mattered.

    And you don’t have to force yourself to feel better just because you think you should be.

    Maybe moving forward isn’t always a clean line from feeling bad to feeling better.

    Maybe sometimes it’s more like:

    Feel it.

    Step away.

    Come back.

    Keep going.

    And then, when you need to, come back again.

    The danger of ignoring difficult feelings isn’t that they’ll somehow punish you for being insufficiently emotionally aware.

    It’s that they don’t necessarily disappear just because you’ve stopped looking at them.

    They can turn into irritability.

    Resentment.

    Anxiety.

    Numbness.

    A vague sense that something is wrong without knowing what.

    Sometimes they show up in places that have nothing obvious to do with where they began.

    I’m not suggesting that every difficult emotion needs to be excavated until you’ve found its deepest possible meaning.

    That sounds exhausting.

    Sometimes you really are just having a bad day.

    Sometimes you’re sad because you’re sad.

    Sometimes you’re angry because someone was cruel.

    Sometimes you’re disappointed because you wanted something and didn’t get it.

    That can be enough.

    And then you can decide what comes next.

    Maybe you need to cry.

    Maybe you need to complain.

    Maybe you need to take a walk.

    Maybe you need to watch something ridiculous.

    Maybe you need to talk to someone who loves you.

    Maybe you need to do absolutely nothing useful for a while.

    And maybe tomorrow you’ll feel a little different.

    Or maybe you won’t.

    That’s okay too.

    I don’t want wallowing to become another thing we can fail at.

    There’s no gold star for processing your emotions efficiently.

    There’s no achievement badge for turning pain into wisdom before anyone else.

    And there certainly isn’t a little green owl waiting to shame you because you missed your emotional-growth streak.

    Sometimes the next step is very small.

    Sometimes it is simply admitting:

    This hurts.

    Then you make dinner.

    You answer an email.

    You watch something funny.

    You go to bed.

    And maybe tomorrow you come back to it.

    That’s not standing still.

    Sometimes feeling the thing is part of moving forward.

  • What If You Just Asked for What You Want?

    I’ve been thinking a lot about preferences lately.

    Not boundaries. Not dealbreakers. Not the things that make us say an unequivocal no.

    Just preferences.

    The restaurant you’d rather go to.

    The seat you’d prefer.

    The shirt you like better.

    The way you’d like something done.

    The plan that sounds a little more fun to you.

    Small things, mostly.

    And I think we sometimes make having a preference much more complicated than it needs to be.

    There can be a strange amount of work involved in admitting that we want something.

    We want to know whether it’s reasonable.

    Whether someone else wants it more.

    Whether it’s worth bringing up.

    Whether we’ll seem demanding.

    Whether we have a good enough reason.

    Sometimes we don’t even get that far.

    Someone asks what we’d like to do, and “Whatever you want” comes out before we’ve considered the question.

    Someone asks where we’d like to eat, and we say we don’t care.

    Someone suggests a plan, and we say, “That’s fine.”

    And sometimes it really is fine.

    Sometimes we genuinely don’t have a preference.

    Sometimes we do have one and decide that it isn’t important enough to pursue.

    Sometimes we know exactly what we’d prefer and are perfectly happy to let someone else choose.

    I don’t think any of those things are failures of self-trust.

    In fact, I think self-trust requires making room for all of them.

    The important part is knowing which one you’re doing.

    Because there is a difference between choosing to accommodate someone and automatically giving the decision away.

    There is a difference between thinking, “I don’t mind”, and never checking whether you do.

    There is a difference between saying, “You choose” because you genuinely don’t care and saying it because you’ve become so accustomed to accommodating other people that your own preference doesn’t even make it into the conversation.

    And there is a difference between advocating for what you want and believing you should always get your way.

    I think we sometimes collapse those things together.

    We worry that if we admit we want something, we’re being demanding.

    So we soften it.

    “I mean, I’d prefer this, but it’s really not a big deal.”

    “I’d like to do that, if you want.”

    “I’d rather go there, but whatever works.”

    Sometimes that softening is simply our personality.

    Sometimes it’s kindness.

    Sometimes it’s an attempt to leave room for another person’s preference.

    But sometimes I wonder if we’re just trying to make our own wants as unobtrusive as possible before anyone has even responded to them.

    What if we didn’t?

    What if we could simply say:

    “I’d prefer this.”

    Not as a demand.

    Not as a declaration that our preference is objectively better.

    Just as information.

    This is what I’d like.

    Then the other person gets to respond.

    Maybe they agree.

    Maybe they don’t.

    Maybe you find a third option.

    Maybe their preference matters more to you in this particular situation, and you happily go along with it.

    Maybe yours matters more this time.

    Maybe neither of you feels strongly enough to make the decision worth much discussion.

    All of those are possible.

    Communicating what you want doesn’t decide the outcome.

    It simply gives your preference a place in the conversation.

    And I think that’s an important distinction.

    Self-trust isn’t the belief that your way is always the right way.

    It’s not needing to win every disagreement.

    It’s not putting yourself at the centre of every decision.

    It’s knowing that your own perspective is worth consulting.

    You can listen to someone else’s preference without abandoning yours.

    You can advocate for yourself without demanding that someone else agree with you.

    You can compromise without disappearing.

    And you can change your mind without deciding that you were wrong to want something in the first place.

    That last one feels particularly important.

    Sometimes we talk about self-trust as though the goal is to become completely certain about what we want.

    I’m not sure that’s possible.

    Sometimes you want something and then discover you don’t.

    Sometimes you think you care and realize you don’t.

    Sometimes you want two things that can’t both happen.

    Sometimes you very much want something and still decide that something else matters more.

    Self-trust doesn’t remove any of that complexity.

    It gives you somewhere to stand while you’re figuring it out.

    Maybe that’s why I’ve become so interested in the tiny moment before we answer.

    The moment someone asks:

    “What do you want?”

    And instead of immediately handing the decision back, we pause.

    Not because we have to make our preference known.

    Not because we’re supposed to choose ourselves every time.

    Just long enough to find out if there’s something we’d like to say.

    Maybe the answer is still:

    “I really don’t care. You choose.”

    Wonderful.

    Maybe it’s:

    “Actually, I’d rather go here.”

    That’s worth knowing, too.

    And maybe you say it.

    Maybe you don’t.

    That’s your choice.

    But there is something quietly powerful about letting yourself have a preference without immediately turning it into a justification, a negotiation, or a demand.

    You don’t have to make a fuss for your preference to matter.

    You don’t have to convince anyone that it’s the correct preference.

    You don’t even have to get what you want.

    You can simply let it exist.

    And perhaps that’s where advocacy begins.

    Not with becoming louder.

    Not with learning to insist.

    Just with allowing your own voice to enter the room.

    I’d prefer this.

    Then listening to what happens next.

    Not:

    “What if you stopped accommodating?”


    More:


    Sometimes we make having a preference much more complicated than it needs to be.


    You know where you want to eat.


    You’d rather have the window seat.


    You want your boss to consider your idea.


    You’d like your partner to do something differently.


    You want to wear the thing you actually like.


    And you don’t necessarily need a dissertation explaining why.


    You can just say:


    “I’d prefer this.”
    This is about the uncomfortable space between having a preference and feeling entitled to get your way.


    Because I think that’s where a lot of women get stuck.


    We don’t want to be demanding, so we make our preferences sound like non-preferences:


    “I mean, if you want…”


    “It’s totally fine if…”


    “I don’t really care, but…”


    “Whatever works.”


    Advocating for yourself doesn’t require certainty that your preference is objectively better.


    It can simply mean letting someone know what you’d like.


    And then being willing to hear their answer.


    That’s much more interesting to me than another post about stopping self-erasure.

  • When Accommodation Becomes Automatic

    I’m pretty good at reading people.

    Not in a particularly mystical way. I notice things.

    A change in someone’s voice. A pause before they answer. The expression that crosses their face when something isn’t quite what they wanted. The difference between “that’s fine” and that’s fine.

    I’ve learned to pay attention to those things.

    Sometimes that’s useful.

    My husband, for example, is not particularly interested in making decisions. If I wait for him to decide where we’re going to eat, we may still be discussing it tomorrow. So I make the decision.

    Then I watch his reaction.

    If he seems happy, great.

    If I can tell I’ve picked something he doesn’t actually want, I’ll usually adjust.

    There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I think there’s something lovely about knowing the people we love well enough to notice what they aren’t saying.

    The problem isn’t accommodation.

    The problem is when accommodation becomes automatic.

    Because there is a difference between:

    “I noticed what you need, and I chose to respond to it.”

    and:

    “I noticed what you need, so I never stopped to ask what I need.”

    From the outside, those can look exactly the same.

    A person who is accommodating can look generous, thoughtful, flexible, easygoing.

    And sometimes she is all of those things.

    Sometimes she also has a preference and has decided, quite consciously, that it isn’t important enough to pursue.

    That’s different too.

    I don’t think self-trust means insisting on every preference.

    If my husband wants Thai food and I don’t particularly care what we eat, I have no inner turmoil demanding Italian.

    Sometimes someone else’s preference simply matters more.

    Sometimes the choice genuinely doesn’t matter to us.

    Sometimes we’re willing to give something up because the relationship matters more than the thing itself.

    That’s not self-abandonment.

    That’s choice.

    What interests me is what happens when we stop knowing whether we’re choosing or simply reacting.

    Women are often rewarded for being good at accommodation.

    You’re so understanding.

    You’re so reasonable.

    You’re so flexible.

    You’re so easy to work with.

    You’re the person everyone can count on.

    Those can be genuine compliments.

    They can also teach us something.

    Not necessarily because the person praising us means to teach it, but because praise is powerful. We tend to repeat things that make other people happy.

    If being agreeable gets us approval, we may become more agreeable.

    If anticipating someone’s needs gets us appreciation, we may become very good at anticipating them.

    If never making a fuss keeps things peaceful, we may learn that peace is worth the cost.

    And eventually, something that began as a useful skill can start to feel like part of who we are.

    “I’m the reasonable one.”

    “I’m the flexible one.”

    “I don’t really care.”

    “I can work around it.”

    “I’ll just do it.”

    Maybe that’s true.

    Maybe you really are flexible.

    Maybe you genuinely don’t care where you eat.

    Maybe you’re perfectly happy to let your boss make the decision.

    Maybe you don’t mind changing the plan.

    But there’s a question I think is worth asking every once in a while:

    Do I actually not mind?

    Not because the answer needs to be no.

    It doesn’t.

    Sometimes the answer is an enthusiastic yes.

    Sometimes it’s a shrug.

    Sometimes it’s, “Actually, I’d rather do something else.”

    And sometimes you know what you want and decide not to pursue it anyway.

    All of those are different experiences.

    The important part, at least to me, is getting the chance to know which one you’re having.

    Because I don’t want to confuse self-trust with getting my way.

    I don’t think self-trust means that my preference should always win.

    It means my preference gets to exist.

    I can know what I want and still choose something else.

    I can disagree with someone and still respect their decision.

    I can accommodate someone without becoming meek.

    I can be easygoing without making myself easy to overlook.

    And I can notice someone else’s reaction without immediately making it the most important information in the room.

    That last one is probably the hardest.

    When you’ve become good at reading people, their reactions can feel urgent.

    Someone looks disappointed, and your attention moves toward them.

    Someone hesitates, and you start wondering whether you should change course.

    Someone seems unhappy with your decision, and suddenly you’re reconsidering one you were perfectly comfortable making thirty seconds ago.

    Sometimes that information matters.

    Sometimes it tells us something we genuinely need to know.

    But sometimes it is simply information.

    Someone else’s reaction doesn’t automatically become an instruction.

    That’s something I’m still practising.

    Noticing the reaction.

    Listening to it.

    And then remembering to listen for myself, too.

    Because being thoughtful about other people doesn’t require us to stop being thoughtful about ourselves.

    And perhaps that’s the distinction I’m most interested in.

    Not between being accommodating and being selfish.

    Not between being easygoing and being difficult.

    Between accommodation as a choice and accommodation as a reflex.

    There is nothing wrong with giving someone else the restaurant they wanted.

    There is nothing wrong with changing your mind because their preference matters more to you.

    There is nothing wrong with being the person who can roll with things.

    But there is something worth noticing when you no longer know what you would have chosen.

    Sometimes self-trust is simply making enough room to find out.

  • The Quietest Things Have Changed Me the Most

    Sometimes I look back at the moments that changed my life and realise they weren’t dramatic at all.

    They weren’t the big decisions or the milestones people celebrate.

    They were quieter than that.

    A question I couldn’t stop thinking about.

    A sentence that stayed with me long after I’d finished reading a book.

    The moment I noticed I was speaking to myself more harshly than I would ever speak to someone I loved.

    Choosing, just once, to respond differently.

    At the time, none of those moments felt significant.

    They certainly didn’t feel like transformation.

    But when I look back now, I can see they changed the direction of my life in small, almost invisible ways.

    I think we often expect growth to announce itself.

    We imagine we’ll know exactly when we’ve become more confident, more self-trusting, more at peace.

    In reality, I don’t think that’s how it happens.

    I think growth is often so quiet that we only recognise it in hindsight.

    It’s the conversation you stop rehearsing.

    The apology you realise you didn’t need to make.

    The moment you notice your own needs without immediately explaining them away.

    The question you ask yourself instead of rushing to find someone else’s answer.

    None of those moments look particularly impressive from the outside.

    But they change something on the inside.

    Over the past few months, I’ve been writing about many of these ideas.

    Trusting what we notice.

    Staying in conversation with ourselves.

    Learning not to treat ourselves like problems to solve.

    Again and again, I found myself returning to the same kind of questions.

    Not because I was searching for perfect answers.

    Because I was practising a different relationship with myself.

    Somewhere along the way, I realised I wasn’t simply writing blog posts.

    I was documenting a way of paying attention.

    That realisation slowly became Within.

    When I first imagined it, I thought I was creating a journal.

    A place to write.

    A place to reflect.

    But the more I worked on it, the more it changed.

    Or maybe I changed.

    I stopped thinking about prompts and pages.

    I started thinking about companionship.

    About the books we return to.

    The conversations that continue long after we’ve closed the cover.

    The symbols that help us understand ourselves in new ways.

    Within became less about recording thoughts and more about creating space to meet them.

    Not as problems to solve.

    As invitations to understand ourselves more honestly.

    I don’t believe one journal changes a life.

    I don’t think one blog post does either.

    But I do believe quiet practices shape us.

    A question written in the margin.

    A few minutes of reflection before the day begins.

    A sentence we carry with us because it reminds us who we’re trying to become.

    Those are the things that have changed me.

    Quietly.

    Patiently.

    Almost without me noticing.

    Maybe that’s why I’ve stopped looking for dramatic transformations.

    I’m learning to trust the quieter ones instead.

    I am ready to begin.

  • You Don’t Have to Figure Yourself Out Alone

    For a long time, I thought understanding myself meant reaching a conclusion.

    If I reflected enough…

    If I read enough…

    If I asked enough questions…

    Surely I would eventually arrive at the version of myself that finally made sense.

    I don’t think that’s what I was really looking for.

    I think I was looking for someone to tell me I was doing it right.

    Someone to reassure me that I wasn’t too much.

    Or too sensitive.

    Or too complicated.

    Or simply getting it wrong.

    There’s comfort in believing that someone else can hand us the answer.

    Sometimes they can offer perspective.

    Sometimes they ask the question we couldn’t have found on our own.

    Sometimes they simply remind us we’re not as alone as we thought.

    But I’ve learned that no one else can build a relationship with me on my behalf.

    Only I can do that.

    That realization wasn’t discouraging.

    It was strangely freeing.

    Because it meant I could stop trying to become someone who finally deserved my own understanding.

    I could begin with the person who was already here.

    I think we often imagine self-reflection as a lonely practice.

    A journal.

    A quiet room.

    A conversation that happens only inside our own heads.

    Sometimes it is.

    But I’ve come to believe that reflection also has companions.

    A sentence that stays with you for years.

    A book that asks the question you didn’t know you needed.

    A trusted friend who listens without trying to solve you.

    A symbol that helps you see yourself differently.

    Companionship doesn’t always tell us what to think.

    Sometimes it simply helps us stay.

    That’s the kind of companionship I’ve been trying to create in my own work.

    Not answers.

    Not instructions.

    Companionship.

    A place where curiosity feels safer than judgment.

    Where questions are welcomed instead of hurried.

    Where you don’t have to perform certainty before you’re allowed to begin.

    Over the past few months, that understanding quietly reshaped something I was creating.

    I thought I was making a journal.

    Somewhere along the way, it became something else.

    It became a conversation.

    The journal remained at its heart, but it slowly gathered companions around it.

    Not because I wanted to give people more content.

    Because different conversations ask for different company.

    Some days we need courage.

    Some days we need compassion.

    Some days we need honesty.

    Some days we simply need someone—or something—that reminds us to stay with ourselves a little longer.

    That’s the spirit behind Within.

    Not a collection of answers.

    A collection of conversations.

    Not lessons to master.

    Companions to return to.

    Because I don’t think the goal is to figure yourself out once and for all.

    I think the goal is something quieter.

    To become someone you can keep company with.

    Again tomorrow.

    And the day after that.

    And every ordinary day that follows.

    I can become a safe place for myself.

  • The Questions That Changed Me Didn’t Have Immediate Answers

    There are a few questions that seem to return to me every year.

    Not because I haven’t answered them.

    Because I’m not the same person who asked them the year before.

    For a long time, I thought a good question was one that eventually disappeared.

    I assumed that if I reflected long enough, read enough books, or understood myself well enough, I would finally arrive at the answer—and the question would quietly leave.

    But that hasn’t been my experience.

    The most meaningful questions in my life haven’t vanished.

    They’ve evolved.

    Sometimes they’ve softened.

    Sometimes they’ve become more complicated.

    Sometimes they’ve stopped asking what I thought they were asking in the first place.

    And I’ve started to wonder if that isn’t the point.

    We often treat reflection like a problem-solving exercise.

    We search for the correct answer.

    The perfect insight.

    The breakthrough that finally explains everything.

    There’s comfort in believing that enough understanding will eventually bring certainty.

    Sometimes it does.

    But more often, I think reflection asks something else of us.

    Not certainty.

    Presence.

    The questions that have changed me most are the ones I couldn’t answer all at once.

    Questions like:

    Why do I keep apologizing for things that aren’t mine to apologize for?

    Why does rest still feel like something I have to earn?

    What does it actually mean to trust myself?

    None of those questions had a single answer.

    They became conversations.

    Each time I returned to them, I noticed something different.

    A new memory.

    A different pattern.

    A little more compassion than I had the last time.

    The question didn’t disappear.

    I changed.

    Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to finish the conversation.

    Instead, I started paying attention to how it was changing me.

    That shift has quietly transformed the way I think about reflection.

    I no longer believe its purpose is to produce perfect answers.

    I think its purpose is to deepen our relationship with ourselves.

    To notice.

    To return.

    To listen again.

    That’s the kind of conversation I’m interested in now.

    One that leaves room for uncertainty.

    One that allows us to outgrow old answers without feeling like we’ve failed.

    One that reminds us we are allowed to become someone new without abandoning who we’ve already been.

    If you’ve been following my writing for a while, you’ve probably noticed this shift too.

    Over the past few months, I’ve written about permission, self-trust, belonging, and curiosity.

    Slowly, those ideas began gathering around a single question:

    What happens when we stop trying to solve ourselves and start listening instead?

    That question became the foundation for something I’ve been quietly creating.

    It’s called Within.

    Not because it contains the answers.

    Because it’s an invitation to begin a different kind of conversation.

    One that doesn’t end when you close the journal.

    One that continues every time you choose curiosity over judgment, presence over performance, and relationship over perfection.

    I think those are the conversations that change us.

    Not all at once.

    But one honest return at a time.

    🌟 I can stay in conversation with myself.

  • What Happens When You Don’t Rush the Answer?

    I have a habit of wanting answers before I’ve really understood the question.

    Sometimes it looks like researching something for hours.

    Sometimes it looks like replaying the same conversation in my head, hoping I’ll finally arrive at the one perfect interpretation.

    Sometimes it looks like trying to solve a feeling before I’ve allowed myself to experience it.

    I think many of us mistake speed for clarity.

    We assume that if we think hard enough, search long enough, or analyze carefully enough, certainty will eventually appear.

    And when it doesn’t, we often conclude that we’re doing something wrong.

    But I’ve been wondering if certainty isn’t always what we’re looking for.

    Sometimes what we’re looking for is simply relief.

    Relief from not knowing.

    Relief from uncertainty.

    Relief from sitting with a question that refuses to resolve on our timeline.

    That relief can be tempting.

    It can make us reach for the first answer that sounds convincing.

    It can make us dismiss our own experience because someone else seems more certain.

    It can make us mistake movement for progress.

    But clarity has its own timing.

    Some things become clearer because we solve them.

    Others become clearer because we stop interrupting them.

    I’ve noticed this in my own life more often lately.

    When something feels unsettled, my instinct is still to push for resolution.

    To figure it out.

    To make sense of it.

    To tie it into a neat conclusion before I move on.

    I’m practicing something different now.

    When I notice that urgency, I try to ask myself another question instead.

    “What happens if I stay here a little longer?”

    Not forever.

    Not endlessly circling the same thoughts.

    Just long enough to hear what I might have missed while I was rushing toward an answer.

    Sometimes nothing happens.

    Sometimes the question simply becomes quieter.

    Sometimes the answer arrives in a completely different form than I expected.

    And sometimes I realize I wasn’t actually looking for an answer at all.

    I was looking for permission to trust what I already knew.

    The older I get, the less interested I am in collecting perfect answers.

    I’m becoming much more interested in asking honest questions.

    Questions that don’t corner me.

    Questions that don’t demand immediate certainty.

    Questions that leave room for curiosity, contradiction, and change.

    That’s part of what I’ve been building over these past few months.

    Not a system for figuring yourself out.

    A practice of staying in conversation with yourself.

    It’s a quiet shift, but it has changed the way I relate to almost everything.

    Instead of asking,

    “How do I solve this?”

    I’m learning to ask,

    “What is this asking me to notice?”

    Those two questions lead to very different places.

    One assumes I am a problem to fix.

    The other assumes I am a person worth listening to.

    I know which one I’m trying to practice.

    Slowly.

    Imperfectly.

    One honest question at a time.

    I do not have to rush my own becoming.