It can be deeply unsettling to realize you don’t get to control how others see you.

Someone may tell your story in a way that erases your complexity, ignores your growth, or twists your intentions. They may define you by your most vulnerable moments, or by their own projections. And you don’t get to revise it. You don’t get to write in the nuance. You don’t even get a say.

This can feel especially painful for survivors—for those of us who’ve spent years trying to be palatable, trying to be safe, trying to be seen in a way that doesn’t hurt.

So when someone misrepresents us or insists on viewing us through a distorted lens, it can stir up old wounds. The urge to explain, correct, or prove ourselves kicks in. The nervous system says, “We’re not safe unless they understand.”

But I want to offer something different this week.

A soft, grounded invitation to stop editing yourself for someone else’s comfort.

Because the truth is:

If someone is committed to misunderstanding you, no amount of explaining will change their story.

You could overexplain until you’re breathless.
You could shrink and shape-shift and self-monitor.
And still, they’ll only ever see what they’re willing to see.

So what if the work now isn’t changing their story—but showing up fully in yours?

What if the invitation is to become the author?

To center yourself—not in a self-absorbed way, but in a self-honoring way.
To let your own voice rise in volume, clarity, and trust.
To tell the truth of your lived experience and let that truth anchor you when others don’t get it right.

Being the author doesn’t mean you stop listening or growing.
It just means you stop outsourcing your worth.
You stop handing the pen to people who were never meant to hold it.

When you’re grounded in your own narrative—your values, your experiences, your knowing—it becomes easier to discern what belongs and what doesn’t. You begin to see that someone’s mischaracterization of you is just that: theirs. Not yours to carry. Not yours to fix.

And yes, it can still sting to be misunderstood.
But it doesn’t have to uproot you.
Not when you know how to come home to yourself.

Let this be the week you hold the pen with a little more intention.

Dear one, let this be the week you write a story that honors who you are.

Thank you for letting me see you,