I’ve been checking in with myself lately.
Not in a performative way, not a morning-routine, hot-lemon-water kind of check-in.
An honest one.
The kind that sneaks up on you mid-interaction, or right after you send the email. When a thought intrudes.
When something doesn’t sit right and you think:
Wait… was that me? Was I too much? Or did they just not want to be held accountable?
That’s been happening a lot lately.
So much so, I said to my mom, “I’m the common denominator. It must be me.”
And she said: “No, it’s because you won’t bow down.”
Sometimes I just want to dig a hole and hide for a while.
It’s made me reflect, not just on my friendships, but on all my relationships.
Not from a place of rage anymore. That’s passed. Maybe. A simmer.
This is something else.
Something quieter, like sneaky. Maybe impish.
I used to think I was alone.
That I wanted deeper connection. That I wanted people to know me better.
But maybe… I wasn’t alone.
Maybe I was just surrounded by people who were comfortable relying on me:
for my presence, my insight, my effort,
but never truly interested in knowing who I was.
People who expected me to dim so they could shine.
People who were happy for me to carry the weight, do the work, and soften the blow, while they took the credit.
People who preferred me agreeable and generous, not opinionated or clear.
I’m not angry anymore. I’m just tired. So tired. Probably a little annoyed too.
Tired of being the one who gives.
Tired of being the one who adjusts, who softens, who makes space, and rarely sees that effort returned.
There are two other women in my life right now.
One is my massage therapist. The other, my fitness trainer.
Both are trained to listen. To read. To ask. To witness without inserting themselves.
And yet — I feel more seen in those sessions than I have in some relationships I’ve maintained for decades.
Both of these women have, on separate occasions, told me they enjoy our conversations. And I wonder…
If we were to extend our relationship beyond the mat, beyond the table — would it translate?
Or is there something sacred in that boundary?
Is the openness I feel with them only possible because of the structure around it — the container, the time, the mutual agreement that I’ll be met, not mirrored?
Or is it something else?
Maybe it’s respect.
Maybe it’s mutuality.
Maybe I open up because I feel safe. Because I’m not being mined for comparison, or convenience, or control.
Maybe that’s the shift I’m in now.
Only opening in spaces where there is reciprocal attention.
Not performance.
Not obligation.
Not guilt.
Respect.
I wasn’t sure about putting these feelings into words.
Were they justified? Too much? Ragey?
Maybe — I’ll say it — menopausal induced?
What would the people in my life think, reading this?
What are you thinking, reading this?
But here’s the thing:
I’m 51 years old.
I know myself better now than I ever have.
I’ve lived through loss and grief. Through personal tragedies and private breakdowns.
I’ve survived.
I’ve rebuilt.
I know my strengths. I know my triggers. I know my passions and desires.
I know the life I want to create for this next chapter.
And I don’t want to pretend I’m “fine” anymore.
I want people in my life who care.
Who ask.
Who notice.
Who want to know — and don’t run from the knowing.
So… am I angry?
No.
I think I’m just done wasting time.
Done carrying other people’s fragility.
Done tolerating shallow dynamics as a stand-in for intimacy.
And while we’re here, let me be clear…
My presence gives people permission.
To be weird. Daring. Bold.
To follow dreams. To take the chance. To do something different.
Because there’s no judgment here — just one ask:
Do what makes you happy, but don’t hurt people on purpose.
I give people the green light to wear the damn Converse.
To finally buy the Doc Martens.
To get the fringe, paint the wall black, book the trip, start the business, kiss the wrong person or maybe the right person at the wrong time, fix the right mistake.
Do it. Because you ache for it. Because you want it. Because something inside you said: yes.
And to the men in my life — the ones I have to interact with in business, condo boards, management positions…
Do your fucking job.
Then maybe I won’t have to come for you like your goddamn mother.
You got caught.
Suck it up.
Put on your big boy tighty whities and handle your shit.
I will keep calling you out.
But I’m done arguing.
Check yourself. Correct yourself.
And to those of you — men or women — who kept me as the “weird friend” so you could be quirky without consequence?
So you could play safe and still look edgy?
Take responsibility.
You don’t get to borrow my shine without carrying your own light.
I shift with the moon.
This is ELLASAID.
And this is where I’ll keep saying it.