“You’re so good with words.”
"You're such a good writer."
"You need to write a book."
I hear it so often. Sometimes it’s a compliment, sometimes it’s an observation, and sometimes it’s a thinly veiled critique. But what most people don’t realize is that my ability to articulate, explain, and analyze isn’t just a skill—it’s a survival mechanism.
I grew up feeling constantly misunderstood, attacked, and left to fend for myself. In a world that often felt hostile, my safest option was to problem-solve, to present evidence, and to over-explain—hoping that if I laid everything out clearly enough, I would be heard. Underneath the logic and precision, there’s always been a quiet desperation: Please, just understand me. Please, don’t twist my words. Please, don’t turn me into something I’m not.
Stoic. Analytical. Over-communicator. I’ve been called all of these things, and maybe they’re true. But what’s also true is that my need to clarify and take responsibility comes from years of knowing no one would step in for me. No one would smooth things over on my behalf. No one would say, “I see you. I’ve got your back.” So, I became my own advocate. My own protector. My own fixer.
To some, it may look like a calculated defense. A way to control the narrative. A deliberate wielding of words. But in reality, it’s a fawning response—a deeply ingrained reflex to feeling chronically unsafe. If I can just explain well enough, maybe I won’t be abandoned. If I can just make sense of things, maybe I won’t be blamed.
Words are my gift, yes. But they are also my armor. And underneath them, there is still a person just wanting to be understood.
🫰❣️🫖 JustRealTea
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