The Most Misunderstood Part of Me Is How “Okay” I Look

The most misunderstood part of me is how okay I appear.

People assume that because I function, I must be fine. And because I speak openly, they assume I’ve said everything. What they don’t realise is that what I share is only the surface — the parts I know are safe to touch. Even that, at times, feels like too much.

I’ve been told I overshare.

But if this is what overwhelms people, I wonder what would happen if they ever encountered the full depth of me.

I’ve learned how to move through life without revealing what actually lives beneath the words. I know how to articulate just enough to be understood, without being exposed. Composure becomes a skill when you’ve learned that not everything you carry will be held well.

Somewhere along the way, being “okay” became a form of survival. Not because I wanted to hide, but because honesty has a way of making people uncomfortable. The world welcomes vulnerability only when it’s neat, brief, and easy to respond to.

So I adapted.

I learned how to share without unsettling the room. How to stay present while holding the weight quietly. How to be visible without asking for too much.

Over time, something became clear: being misunderstood hurts — but trying to correct it hurts more.

At first, I tried. I explained myself. I softened my words. I trusted that if I said it differently, I would be met differently. But misunderstanding, when repeated, teaches restraint. Especially when it comes from people who don’t intend harm — they simply don’t have the capacity.

There comes a point where the exhaustion isn’t emotional. It’s relational.

You grow tired of being called strong when you’re simply enduring. Tired of being seen as too much when you’re barely revealing anything at all. Tired of realising that even your surface feels overwhelming.

So you stop disclosing.

Not because you have nothing left to say, but because you’ve learned that depth requires space — and not everyone has it.

We live in a world that is loud and reactive. Silence is questioned. Pauses are misread. If you don’t narrate your inner world, people assume there is nothing there.

But some of us are not empty. We are full.

Full of thoughts left unsaid. Full of reflections held back. Full of things we’ve learned to carry quietly because experience has taught us how rarely they are received with care.

And perhaps the hardest truth to accept is this: people can only meet you as deeply as they have met themselves.

No amount of explanation can bridge that distance.

As I move toward 2026, I feel a deliberate shift within me. A decision to put the load down — not in bitterness, but in clarity. To forgive without forgetting. To love without second-guessing. To live on the brink — not recklessly, but honestly.

I want to pray with my whole heart, trusting that the Lord is listening. To try to right the wrongs I have done, without being consumed by shame. To say, plainly, I am sorry — I messed up.

I want to listen more with my heart than with my ears. To see situations not through what I would do, but through where others are standing

And if I choose silence more often now, it isn’t because I’ve closed myself off.

It’s because I’ve learned discernment.

If you feel tired — not from doing too much, but from being misunderstood — you are not broken. You are not too much. You are not failing at connection.

Sometimes depth needs protection.

And sometimes, that protection looks like quiet.