The things people say

It starts with questions

At first, it sounds like curiosity.

How long are you going for?
What about school?
Don't the kids miss their friends?
But isn't that really expensive?

Some of these are genuine. Some are careful ways of saying: I don't understand why you would do this.

And honestly, I answer all of them.
Carefully. Thoroughly. As if passing a test I haven't signed up for.

Because somewhere inside me, there is still a voice that says: if they don't understand, maybe you haven't explained it well enough.

I know, rationally, that some questions aren't looking for answers.
They're looking for you to doubt yourself.

Knowing that doesn't stop me from trying anyway.
 

The comments that stay

The sharp ones aren't always loud.

Sometimes it's a look. A pause before someone changes the subject. A careful "well, as long as you're happy" that doesn't sound like it means it.

Sometimes it's more direct.

That's not fair on the kids.
You can't keep running forever.
At some point you'll have to face reality.

These are the ones that stay.
Not because they're true, but because they land exactly where your own doubts already live.

That's what makes them so effective.
They don't introduce new fears. They confirm the ones you're already carrying.
 

What I keep doing

I over-explain.

I lay out our reasons, our context, our daughter's story, our careful thinking. I offer timelines, plans, nuance. I try to make it make sense to someone who may have already decided it doesn't.

And every time, I walk away more drained than before.

Not because the conversation is hard,
but because I hand over something that isn't theirs to hold.

Our story. Our reasons. Our deepest vulnerabilities.
Offered up as evidence in a case I never needed to defend.

I know this. I see it happening. And I still do it.

Even with people who mean well. Even with questions that are genuinely kind. My body responds before my mind catches up, and suddenly I'm justifying again.
 

I know I don't owe anyone our story. I just haven't learned to stop offering it yet.

The ones who stopped asking

We haven't lost people. Not really.

But some have gone quiet.

Not in a dramatic way. Not with conflict or clear distance.
They just stopped asking.

They're still there. Still friendly. Still present at birthdays and gatherings.
But the questions about our life, about how we're doing, about what it's actually like — those have faded.

Maybe they don't know what to ask.
Maybe they've decided it's not for them to understand.
Maybe it's easier to leave it alone.

I don't blame them.
But I notice it.

And sometimes, noticing is enough to feel the gap.
 

What I'm learning

I'd love to say I've figured this out.
That I've reached some calm, grounded place where other people's opinions no longer touch me.

But that's not where I am.

I still feel it. The sting of a comment that wasn't meant to hurt but did. The pull to explain. The urge to make someone see what I see, even when I know it won't change anything.

What is slowly changing, maybe, is that I'm starting to recognise the pattern.

The tightness in my chest before I start defending.
The way I replay conversations for hours afterwards.
The gap between what I know to be true and what I still feel I need to prove.

I'm not past it.
I'm in it.

And maybe writing this is part of learning to hold it differently.
Not louder. Not more defended.

Just more honestly.

Share on

0 replies