v.46 What Happens When Everyone Thinks They Know What You Meant
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
There are moments when writing publicly feels clear and purposeful. And then there are moments like this, when a single essay opens the floodgates to assumptions, distortions, and projections you never intended to invite. If you’ve ever shared something honest and watched it get twisted into something entirely different (online or IRL), you’ll understand the strange kind of disorientation I’m talking about.
When I wrote my recent essay and the accompanying social media posts (No, I’m Not Going to Say Something: The Guilt. The Noise. The Nonsense. I’m Not Here to Perform for You,) I expected discomfort and even some critique. But I didn’t expect the speed in which one message would be interpreted in a dozen different ways, many of them missing the fucking point entirely.
I wrote on Instagram about the emotional toll of feeling pressured to perform grief or outrage on the Internet. I wrote about how action doesn’t have to be visible in order to be valid and about choosing discernment and nervous system regulation over reactivity. And somehow, that became a conversation about privilege and disengagement, about the quality of my writing, about how I’ve centered myself by making it about feelings, and whether or not I care enough. A handful of people even canceled their paid Substack subscriptions. (Yes, Substack sends that data. No, I don’t enjoy seeing it.)
Still, the full picture is more complicated than that. Because alongside the backlash, there was an outpouring of gratitude. I received notes from people who shared my posts, and said, quietly and sincerely, “Thank you for saying what I’ve been feeling.” People who are organizing in their own communities, helping family members navigate crisis, grieving deeply and privately, and doing what they can without announcing it. One of my Instagram posts from that same week has 60,000+ views so far. That level of visibility is both powerful and exhausting. The more people who see something, the more likely it is to be misunderstood, and the more projections get layered onto what was actually said.
I don’t usually explain this, but I’ll say it plainly here: I delete hostile or disrespectful comments from my social feeds. Not because I’m afraid of disagreement, but because I treat those spaces the same way I treat my home. I don’t let strangers walk in, yell over me, and call it conversation. I welcome open-hearted dialogue. I’ve written two books and spent years speaking publicly, so I’m under no illusion that everyone will agree with me. But there’s a very real difference between conversation and spectacle. There are people who come to listen, and there are people who come to perform their own certainty. And when your choices don’t align with the version of justice they’ve decided is acceptable, the impulse is often to shame or silence you rather than ask any real questions.
What frustrated me most was how quickly the actual message got lost. I wasn’t suggesting or writing about being detached or passive. I was writing about the weight of constant public performance and the reality that many of us are doing deeply important emotional and communal work without ever speaking about it online. And yet, there were people determined to turn it into something else entirely. Someone commented, “Most liberals I know are resting and doing nothing,” and I honestly don’t know what that has to do with my essay. I wasn’t writing about liberals. I wasn’t even writing about political identity. I was writing about the very human experience of trying to stay present and engaged without constantly broadcasting our every move.
But that comment, like so many others, reminded me of just how uncomfortable people are with complexity. We have grown (so) impatient with anything that doesn’t offer immediate certainty, a clean binary, or someone to blame. And in that impatience, we miss the point entirely. We flatten people into caricatures and confuse volume for values. We treat disagreement as betrayal, and we call it justice.
This moment we are living through is not only testing our politics, it is testing our capacity to hold tension, to extend grace, and to stay in conversation even when it challenges us. And if we cannot do that, then it will not matter how loudly we speak. Because without a willingness to listen, to truly listen, then nothing meaningful will change.
Let that be the harder work we come back to. Not just saying the right thing at the right time, but staying open long enough to hear the truth in someone else’s experience. Especially when it does not mirror our own.
P.S. I called my representative today to oppose the “Big, Beautiful Bill” and made my monthly donation to a local organization supporting unhoused neighbors. And yes, since the Internet seems to require the announcement, I’ve now said it publicly. You’re welcome.
This week’s microjoy: Our cat, Vivian, is temporarily wearing a (fucking hilarious) onesie to keep her from scratching her back. She’s treating it like a weighted blanket and has become an entirely different cat: calm, slow, weirdly introspective. Gone are the hallway acrobatics and dramatic leaps. I’m sure she’s still in there somewhere, just waiting for her moment to break free... of the onesie. Soon, Vivi, soon.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- please COMMENT, LIKE, or SHARE. Help spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
