They Still Don’t Know Who I Really Am — And I’m Done Explaining

I spent most of my life explaining myself. Justifying my decisions. Smoothing over my rough edges to keep everyone comfortable. I’d rehearse conversations in my head before speaking — making sure my tone wasn’t too sharp, my words not too bold, and my presence not too much.

Because when you’re someone like me — a little too honest, a little too different, and a little too unapologetic — the world doesn’t take you as you are. They try to edit you. Soften you. Translate you into something easier to swallow.

And for years, I let them.

I wore the masks they handed me. The “good girl” mask, the “play-nice” mask, the “don’t-rock-the-boat” mask. I wore them until they molded into my skin, until I couldn’t tell where they ended and I began. I was praised for being agreeable. For being accommodating. For dimming my light just enough to make everyone else feel brighter.

But I was exhausted.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by people who only know the version of you you’ve edited for their comfort. You laugh at their jokes that don’t make you laugh. You agree with opinions that suffocate your soul. You become a mirror, reflecting back what they want to see — until you forget what your own face looks like.

That was me.

A human mirror. A master of code-switching. Fluent in the language of pretending.

But the truth? The real me?

I am not soft around the edges. I am fire and storm and inconvenient truths. I cry when I’m angry, and I get angry when I’m hurt. I am deeply empathetic but not endlessly patient. I love fiercely, but I won’t beg for a seat at any table where my presence is a problem.

And still — they don’t get it.

They still think I’m being dramatic when I express my boundaries. They still say I’m “too sensitive” when I stand up for myself. They still try to reduce me to their version of acceptable.

But here’s what’s changed: I’m done explaining.

I’m done offering disclaimers before I speak. I’m done padding my truth with pleasantries to make it more palatable. I’m done pretending that their inability to understand me is my burden to carry.

Because the truth is — I’m not here to be understood by everyone. I’m here to live my truth, loudly and without apology.

There’s a dangerous narrative in our culture that tells us we must earn our place. That we must contort ourselves to be liked, accepted, loved. That if someone doesn’t “get” us, we need to explain more, try harder, be nicer.

But no one ever told me what it costs.

It costs your voice. Your fire. Your sanity. Your self.

And I refuse to pay that price anymore.

If my honesty offends you, that’s your discomfort to unpack.
If my silence makes you nervous, maybe you were relying on my agreeability too much.
If my choices confuse you, ask yourself why you thought you had the right to understand them in the first place.

I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.

I’m not a story you’re entitled to read in full.

Some parts of me will remain unreadable, not because I’m hiding, but because they were never yours to access.

And maybe that’s what liberation really looks like — not shouting your truth from rooftops for everyone to hear, but whispering it to yourself in the quiet, and knowing that’s enough.

So yes — they still don’t know who I really am.

They don’t know that I dance alone in my kitchen to songs that saved my life.
That I cry at sunsets because beauty reminds me I’m still here.
That I’ve survived things I’ve never spoken of — and maybe never will.
That I love deeper than my silence implies, and feel more than I show.

They don’t know. And they may never.

But that’s no longer my problem to fix.

Because finally, for the first time in my life, I’m not seeking their understanding. I’m standing in my own. And that — that is enough.