The Wrong Audience

A man I dated once told me his family thought I was crazy. They had never met me, but apparently they had read my posts and watched my videos long enough to reach a verdict.

I laughed when he told me.

Not because it didn’t bother me, but because it finally explained something I had been feeling for months.

I wasn’t being misunderstood by him. I was being evaluated by people who would never understand me in the first place.

For some people, writing about your life is attention-seeking. For others, it’s art.

For some people, sharing your thoughts publicly is embarrassing. For others, it’s courage.

For some people, being visible looks like narcissism. For others, it looks like self-expression.

The older I get, the less interested I am in convincing people which one is true.

For a long time, I thought being misunderstood meant I needed to explain myself better. If I could just find the right words, provide enough context, or tell the story differently, people would finally see what I was trying to say.

Now I think being misunderstood often means something much simpler.

It means you’re speaking to people who were never meant to receive what you’re offering.

Not because they’re bad people. Not because you’re better than them. But because we all move through the world with different languages, different values, and different ways of making meaning.

I write because writing helps me understand myself. I publish because I believe our stories can help other people feel less alone. What feels natural to me can feel excessive to someone else. What feels courageous to me can feel uncomfortable to someone who values privacy above all else.

Neither perspective is necessarily wrong.

But they are different.

Maybe the real lesson is that not everyone is your audience.

And maybe compatibility isn’t just about attraction, shared interests, or even values.

Maybe it’s about whether someone can recognize your gifts without mistaking them for your flaws.

Whether they can see your curiosity without calling it chaos.

Your vulnerability without calling it attention-seeking.

Your creativity without calling it too much.

Because there is a difference between being too much and being too much for the wrong people.

For years, I confused those two things. I shrank parts of myself, softened my edges, explained my intentions, and translated my language in hopes of being understood.

Now I’m learning that not everyone is supposed to understand me.

Some people will read my words and see oversharing.

Others will read them and feel seen.

And the older I get, the more interested I am in finding the second group than convincing the first.

Being understood is not always a communication problem.

Sometimes it’s an audience problem.