This Is Not About You -- or me.

This Is Not About You By W.C.

When I write, I reach for the stars we all share. Not the shadows one person casts.

I write to explore the ache that echoes in all of us. The patterns that repeat across generations, the quiet heartbreaks we tuck beneath our routines, the grace we hunt for and sometimes fumble through. My pen chases universal truths—the ones we feel but don’t always name.

Yet too often, someone reads my work and folds the meaning inward. “Are you talking about me?” “Is this post about that time...?” “I bet this is shade.”

And I blink. Not in offense, but in wonder. How did our shared human experience become a guessing game?

It’s strange, really—how some read vulnerability as accusation. As if every reflection is a mirror pointed at one person, instead of a window cracked open for anyone to peer into. I write because the human heart is complex, and sometimes we need language to untangle it. Not because I’m drafting a memo about your choices.

If the shoe fits, let it teach you—not trap you. If the words sting, perhaps they echo a truth worth holding. And if you feel exposed, remember: the spotlight wasn’t mine to turn toward you. That was your own flashlight in your hand.

Self-centeredness can shrink sacred space. And my words deserve room to breathe. They are not whispering gossip in poetic form. They are singing to the tender and the brave, the fractured and the faithful.

This blog is about airspace. About exhaling. About tracing the contours of what it means to be alive—with grace, grit, and the right to speak freely.

So no, this isn’t about you. But if it resonates, maybe you’re standing in the same truth I am.  

Be blessed!wcd