Before You Write the Story

On projection, identity, ego, misunderstanding, and the stories we tell ourselves when information is missing.

The TikToks That Wasn’t About TikTok

A missed call. A few unread videos. An entire story built in the silence between them.

A new acquaintance sent me a few TikToks.

The videos weren’t watched.

A phone call wasn’t returned.

I fell asleep.

That should have been the end of the story.

Instead, it became a referendum on character. Within hours, a missed call transformed into evidence of rejection. Unwatched videos became proof of judgment. Silence became manipulation. Falling asleep became disrespect.

If you’ve ever been human, you’ve probably done some version of this.

Maybe not with TikTok. Maybe with a text message. Maybe with a delayed response. Maybe with someone who didn’t smile back. Maybe with a friend who forgot your birthday. Maybe with a partner who seemed distant. Maybe with a family member who didn’t call when they said they would.

The details don’t matter.

What matters is what happened in the space between the event and the meaning we assigned to it.

Most suffering lives in that space. We love to believe we are responding to reality. More often, we are responding to a story. A story stitched together from old wounds, old betrayals, old fears, and old evidence that may have nothing to do with the present moment.

The mind is extraordinary at filling in missing information. The heart is even faster. When information is incomplete, we rarely leave the blanks empty. We fill them. And we almost always fill them with whatever hurts the most.

If you’ve been abandoned, you’ll find abandonment.

If you’ve been betrayed, you’ll find betrayal.

If you’ve been rejected, you’ll find rejection.

Not because those things are happening. But because your nervous system learned long ago that spotting danger quickly was safer than waiting for confirmation. The irony is that what once protected us can eventually imprison us.

A delayed text becomes proof someone doesn’t care.

A disagreement becomes proof we’re unloved.

A missed call becomes proof we’re unwanted.

And suddenly we’re reacting not to what happened, but to everything that happened before.

The Ego Hates Uncertainty

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned through shadow work is that the ego is deeply uncomfortable with not knowing. Not because we’re weak. Not because we’re broken. Because uncertainty feels dangerous.

The ego would rather have a painful answer than no answer at all. The ego would rather be wrong than uncertain. So when information is missing, the ego rushes in and says:

“Don’t worry. I’ll explain it.”

And it does. Immediately.

She didn’t call because she doesn’t care. He didn’t respond because he’s losing interest. They didn’t invite me because they don’t like me. They haven’t reached out because I’ve been forgotten. The story arrives before the facts do. And if we’re not careful, we start treating the story as evidence.

The reality is that uncertainty is one of the greatest spiritual practices available to us.

Can you sit in not knowing?

Can you resist assigning meaning before you have information?

Can you stay present long enough for truth to reveal itself?

Most of us think faith is believing in God.

Sometimes faith is believing that reality will eventually reveal itself without our need to manufacture a narrative.

I’ve Done It Too

Last year, one of my closest friends disappeared.

At least that’s what it felt like.

For nearly two months I couldn’t get her on the phone. Calls went unanswered. Messages went unanswered. Even my youngest daughter, who had built her own relationship with her, was being ignored.

At first I gave grace. Then I gave more grace. Then confusion started creeping in. Then hurt. Then the stories. Was she upset with me? Had I done something? Was she intentionally distancing herself? Was our friendship no longer important to her?

The truth is I didn’t know.

But the human mind struggles to sit inside uncertainty for very long. We want answers. And when answers don’t come, we manufacture them. Eventually I stopped reaching out. Not because I had evidence.

Because I had a story. A story that felt true. A story that made sense of the silence. A story that was built entirely from incomplete information.

When I finally learned what she had been carrying privately, I understood that her absence had very little to do with me.

But by then, something had shifted. Not because either of us were bad people. Not because either of us intended harm. But because two people had been living inside different realities created by information the other person didn’t have.

That experience taught me something important.

The absence of information is not information.

Read that again.

The absence of information is not information.

Silence is not always rejection. Distance is not always abandonment. Delayed responses are not always disrespect.

Sometimes people are grieving.

Sometimes people are overwhelmed.

Sometimes people are depressed.

Sometimes people are drowning quietly.

Sometimes people are carrying burdens they don’t yet have words for.

Sometimes people are simply asleep.

Vulnerability and the Need to Protect Ourselves

Underneath almost every overreaction is an attempt at self-preservation.

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough. Most people are not trying to be difficult. They’re trying to avoid pain.

Sometimes we push people away before they can leave us.

Sometimes we attack before we can be rejected.

Sometimes we withdraw before we can be abandoned.

Sometimes we decide who someone is before they have the opportunity to disappoint us.

The tragedy is that the very strategies we create to protect ourselves often become the thing that keeps us disconnected. The walls that keep pain out also keep intimacy out. The armor that protects the wound also prevents healing. And if we’re honest, every one of us has done this in one form or another.

Not because we’re malicious.

Because we’re scared.

Because we’ve been hurt.

Because vulnerability requires trust.

And trust has often cost us dearly.

When Wounds Become Identity

One of the most dangerous things about pain is that eventually it stops being something that happened to us and starts becoming who we believe we are.

We stop saying:

“I experienced rejection.”

And start saying:

“People always reject me.”

We stop saying:

“I was abandoned.”

And start saying:

“Everyone leaves.”

We stop saying:

“I was betrayed.”

And start saying:

“Nobody can be trusted.”

The wound graduates from experience to identity.

And once pain becomes identity, every interaction becomes evidence.

Every delayed text confirms the story.

Every misunderstanding validates the narrative.

Every disappointment becomes another exhibit in a case we’ve been building for years.

This is why healing is so hard.

Because healing isn’t just recovering from pain.

Healing is separating who you are from what happened to you.

Healing is refusing to let your wounds become your identity.

Healing is learning that your experiences shaped you without allowing them to define you.

But What Happens When You’re the One Being Misunderstood?

As I write this, I would love to tell you that I am observing all of this from some enlightened mountain top.

I’m not.

I’m living it in real time. Because if I’m being completely honest, the thing that lingered long after the conversation ended wasn’t the accusation. It wasn’t the conflict. It wasn’t even the misunderstanding itself. It was the feeling of being misseen.

There were assumptions made about my character. Assumptions made about my intentions. Assumptions made about my identity. And if I’m honest, some of those assumptions landed harder than others.

Not because they were true. Because they weren’t. But because there is something uniquely painful about being looked directly in the face and still not being seen.

I found myself replaying parts of the conversation. Not because I wanted to win. Not because I needed the last word. But because I was asking myself a question that many of us ask when conflict arises:

Did I do something I’m not seeing?

Did I unintentionally cause harm?

Did I miss something?

As someone who teaches shadow work, healing, accountability, and self-awareness, I take those questions seriously. I never want to become so attached to being right that I lose the ability to self-reflect.

So I sat with it.

I examined my words.

I examined my intentions.

I examined my heart.

And eventually I arrived at a realization that was both uncomfortable and freeing:

Not every misunderstanding is yours to solve.

Read that again.

Not every misunderstanding is yours to solve.

Some people will misunderstand you because they don’t have enough information.

Some people will misunderstand you because they’re hurting.

Some people will misunderstand you because they’re viewing you through the lens of their own experiences.

And some people will misunderstand you because the version of you they’ve created in their mind serves a purpose they are not yet ready to let go of.

That realization doesn’t make it hurt less.

But it does change the assignment.

Because the assignment stops being:

“How do I get them to see me?”

And becomes:

“Can I remain rooted in who I am even when they don’t?”

That is a much harder spiritual practice. Especially for those of us who care deeply about integrity. Especially for those of us who genuinely try to move through the world with compassion. Especially for those of us who have spent years doing the work.

The truth is, I don’t like being misunderstood. I don’t think most people do. But healing eventually teaches us something humbling: Being understood by everyone was never the goal. Being honest with ourselves was.

And there is freedom in that.

Because once you stop trying to manage every perception, you gain your energy back. Once you stop trying to correct every misunderstanding, you gain your peace back. Once you stop trying to convince people who you are, you become free to simply be who you are. That doesn’t mean we stop caring.

It means we stop chasing.

There is a difference.

What surprised me most was realizing that the thing that bothered me wasn’t even the accusation itself. It was the identity attached to it. There were assumptions made about my heritage, my community, and the lens through which I move through the world.

And those assumptions stung.

Not because I needed validation. Not because I suddenly questioned who I was. But because I care deeply about the communities I come from and serve.

I am Afro-Dominican.

My life, my work, my spirituality, my activism, my healing practices, and my community work are all rooted in the understanding that I am descended from people who survived colonization, displacement, enslavement, and erasure.

The irony is that while I was writing an article about projection, I found myself wrestling with my own pain around being misidentified. Not because my identity was actually threatened. But because I wanted to be seen accurately. And that is when another lesson emerged.

You cannot control whether another person sees you clearly.

You can only control whether you see yourself clearly.

That may be one of the hardest lessons adulthood has to offer. There will always be people who misunderstand you. People who decide who you are before they’ve taken the time to know you. People who project onto you. People who create versions of you that exist only inside their own minds.

And if your peace depends on correcting every one of those perceptions, you’ll spend your entire life exhausted.

At some point, the spiritual work becomes learning how to remain anchored in your truth while allowing other people to have their stories.

Not because they’re right.

Not because you agree.

But because your identity is no longer dependent upon their understanding.

Healing Doesn’t Make Us Immune

Some of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met have convinced themselves they were being logical while acting entirely from pain.

Intelligence does not immunize us from projection. Spirituality does not immunize us from projection. Healing does not immunize us from projection. None of us are exempt.

In fact, one of the greatest traps of healing is believing we’ve healed enough to stop projecting. We haven’t. The work isn’t eliminating projection. The work is recognizing it sooner. The work is becoming humble enough to admit that our first interpretation may not be the truth. The work is learning to pause.

To breathe.

To gather information.

To remain curious.

To remember that there are realities beyond our own.

Curiosity Has Saved More Relationships Than Certainty Ever Will

The real work is learning to pause long enough to ask:

What else could be true?

What if they aren’t ignoring me?

What if they’re busy?

What if they’re struggling?

What if they’re grieving?

What if they’re overwhelmed?

What if they’re sleeping?

What if this isn’t about me at all?

That single question has saved me from countless unnecessary stories. Not all. I’m still human. But more than before. And maybe that’s all healing really is.

Not becoming perfect.

Not becoming enlightened.

Not transcending our wounds.

But becoming humble enough to admit that our first interpretation may not be the truth.

Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do for ourselves is resist the urge to become detectives in situations where a simple conversation would suffice. The older I get, the less interested in being right.

I’m interested in being accurate.

Those are not the same thing. Being right often requires a villain. Being accurate requires curiosity. And curiosity has saved more relationships than certainty ever will.

Compassion and Boundaries Can Exist Together

Perhaps the greatest lesson isn’t about forgiveness.

It’s about access.

I can understand why someone behaves the way they do and still choose not to give them unrestricted access to my peace. I can have compassion and boundaries. I can offer grace and distance. I can love someone and move differently.

I can understand someone’s wounds without volunteering to become collateral damage for them.

Those truths are not in conflict.

They are wisdom.

Before You Write the Story

So the next time a text goes unanswered...

The next time someone disappoints you...

The next time your nervous system starts connecting dots faster than your heart can breathe...

Pause.

Ask yourself:

What do I actually know?

What am I assuming?

What story am I writing?

And what part of me is holding the pen?

The wounded child?

The abandoned lover?

The betrayed friend?

The frightened ego?

Or the wiser self that knows truth rarely arrives in a hurry?

Because sometimes the greatest act of healing isn’t speaking.

Sometimes it’s waiting long enough for reality to catch up to the story we’ve already written.

The missed call was never the story.

The story was everything that rushed in to fill the silence.

And if we’re honest, every one of us has written that story before.