Because to Er is Human

It’s past midnight, and I find myself sitting in the middle of everything—news of conflict between nations, the quiet pressure of an upcoming regulatory audit, and the softer pull of spiritual reflection. Strange how these worlds collide, but that’s life. I’m a mother, after all—used to holding many things at once.

And then there are the smaller, more personal battles. The kind that don’t make headlines but linger longer than they should.

Today, I was reminded of how easily people construct stories about you from fragments. A passing comment, a detail shared in good faith, a glimpse of who you used to be—and suddenly, a full narrative is built, often far from the truth.

I’ve always believed it’s okay to have lived fully. To have gone out, laughed loudly, explored life, and made choices without regret. That doesn’t make anyone less worthy—it simply makes them human.

But openness, I’m learning, is not always received with the same spirit in which it is given.

A colleague made a remark about my preferences in relationships, using a term that felt more loaded than casual. It struck me—not because I doubt myself, but because of what it revealed. How quickly people reduce others to labels. How easily assumptions replace understanding.

I’ve never chosen people based on race. I’ve chosen based on how I’m treated, the conversations we can have, the respect we share. That has always been my compass. Nothing more, nothing less.

Perhaps what unsettled me wasn’t the comment itself, but the realization that even in shared spaces—among women, among peers—judgment can still surface in quiet, subtle ways.

We all carry different experiences, different exposures, different ways of seeing the world. Some expand. Some remain contained. And that’s okay. Not every perspective needs to match mine.

But respect should be a constant.

This experience reminded me of something simple: not everything needs to be explained, corrected, or defended. Some things are better acknowledged internally, understood for what they are, and then left behind.

At the end of the day, my life is full in the ways that matter. I have a daughter to raise, a mother to care for, responsibilities to meet, and a path I continue to shape with intention.

If there’s anything to take from this, it’s this:

Not everyone will understand your story—and they don’t have to.

What matters is that you do.

And sometimes, the most powerful response is not a reaction, but a quiet decision to remain exactly who you are—without shrinking, without explaining, and without apology