The Day I Stopped Explaining Myself

Self & Identity series

I don’t remember exactly when it happened. The day I realized I was done justifying everything I do. Done offering reasons for why I think, why I feel, why I need space, why I make the choices I make. Done trying to convince everyone else that I’m “reasonable,” “understandable,” “normal.”

It’s not that I don’t care about people. I do. I just got tired of shrinking myself to fit their questions, their expectations, their confusion. I got tired of answering before I even thought, of defending the simplest pieces of my life as if my existence needed permission.

The first time I let a question hang in the air without answering, I felt my chest tighten and my throat burn—but then something shifted. I noticed I could breathe. I noticed my shoulders weren’t tense anymore. I noticed that my silence didn’t break me.

The world doesn’t always understand. And that’s okay. My worth doesn’t depend on their comprehension. My choices don’t need footnotes. My life doesn’t need a commentary.

I stopped explaining myself. And in that silence, I found a little freedom. A little power. A little me that wasn’t anyone else’s to edit.