check yourself

I’m begging you. Pause.

Not for long. One second. One breath. Just a tiny beat before you launch into your usual script.

Your pain is real. I see it. I validate it. Life can be vicious. People hurt you. And yet — even in that pain — ask yourself: “Did I contribute to this mix-up?” “Did I handle that conflict like someone who’s ever heard of emotional regulation?” “Am I really outside of this thing I’m critiquing, or am I neck-deep in it?”

Here’s what I keep seeing…People narrating their lives like the universe has a personal vendetta. Every slight, every rejection, every hard thing gets recast into a story where they’re always the wounded one. Maybe that was believable the first time. By the tenth? It’s not tragedy. It’s a show nobody bought tickets for.

Worse are the people who rail against systems, factions — without once admitting they’re in the room too. Benefiting. Drinking the free cocktail. To themselves, they’re somehow outsiders. To everyone else? You’re just another face at the table.

This is the maneuver. Separate yourself from the thing you deplore so you never have to touch accountability. The world is the villain. “They” are the problem. You’re the innocent bystander. Except you’re not. You’re on the field, in uniform, playing the game.

And look — I’ve done this (and I’m certain I will again). I’ve complained while enjoying the parts that worked for me. Painted myself as an underdog while sitting comfortably. None of us are clean.

But some people never snap out of it. Some are building entire personalities around it.

You curate your pain. You polish it, frame it, display it, and wait for applause. And how they applaud.

But it’s not always bad luck or bad breaks. Sometimes it’s perspective. Sometimes it’s the story you keep telling to avoid being the villain — or even just a flawed participant.

You assess the circle but never admit you’re standing in it. You point out how self-satisfied, how shallow, how compromised “those people” are — while wearing the same wristband, laughing at the same jokes. You are them. But you’ll die before admitting it out loud.

That’s what grates. The refusal to own it. It’s the performance of separation — when every comfort you enjoy puts you in the exact same room.

You can’t always be the exception. You can’t always be the aggrieved, the one with clear eyes. Sometimes, you’re just another fraud.

And that’s fine. But the difference between exhausting and tolerable is whether you’ll admit it.

Here’s what I think is true: Not everything is your fault. Life is chaos. It’s unfair. People can be cruel. Bad luck exists. So does randomness. Sometimes the world just smacks you in the face for no reason at all.

But some of it is your fault. Some of the missteps, the misunderstandings, the trouble you find yourself trapped in — you contributed to it. You acted. You stayed silent. You overreacted. You avoided, you deflected, you refused to see what was right in front of you.

Not every outcome is under your control. But some were. You had choices. You made decisions. You could have apologized or stepped back — and sometimes, you didn’t.

And until you admit that, you’ll keep spinning the same tired story. You’ll tell it over and over, adding chapters that make you larger, more tragic, but none of it is real growth. None of it is freedom. It’s just a loop.

The stakes of refusing this truth are high. You remain trapped in a version of yourself that’s more bitter and less interesting.

It’s not compelling anymore. It’s not noble. It’s boring.

What is compelling? Someone who can say: “Yes, life hurt me — and yes, I also made it worse by reacting like a rabid animal.” “Yes, the system is rigged — and yes, I also took the money when it was offered.” “Yes, I was wronged — and I’ve wronged people too.”

That’s principle. That’s a story worth hearing.

Because you can hold pain and agency at the same time. You can suffer and still carry the ways you caused some of the suffering.

So please, next time something goes wrong, pause. One second. One breath. Ask the questions. Look in the mirror. Do it again tomorrow. And the day after that.

I will.

Because it’s not self-pity that makes you grow, it’s the biting, brutal honesty of admitting you might be part of the problem.

And once you admit it? For the love of God, commit to it.

If you’re going to lob an opinion, don’t scurry away. Stop collapsing like a $12 lawn chair the second someone pushes back. Keep your bitchy Instagram comment. If you talked shit, own the shit. Don’t play coy. Don’t rewrite history.

Because if you don’t believe in your own noise enough to stand in it, how the hell is anyone else supposed to take you seriously?

It’s not about being “right” all the time. It’s about having the guts to own your part, especially when it stings. Otherwise, you’re not brave — you’re just posturing.

We’re all guilty of this.

It’s tempting to turn it into a hobby. Don’t.

Because the moment you stop playing the tortured, morally perfect protagonist? That’s when life gets sweet. That’s when other people stop cringing in your orbit. That’s when you actually start living instead of performing.

You realize the power in admitting: yes, I was selfish. Yes, I was messy. Yes, I was complicit. Yes, I still hurt. And yes, I will still screw up again.

And somehow, admitting all of it doesn’t destroy you, it makes you human. It makes you relatable. It makes you capable of real connection.

You don’t need the spotlight of perpetual victimhood. You just need the courage to face yourself, day after day, feral-cat reflexes and all.

Because the second you do, the rest of us can finally root for you.

And for the first time, you might root for yourself.

If you made it this far, click that itty-bitty digital organ! ❤️