Do You Even Know Me?

 

Do You Even Know Me

This person was grinning as he said to me, “I don’t really need to get in touch with you. I get everything I need to know about you from your Facebook.”

That one stuck with me.

Because honestly… if that's the case, you don’t know me at all.

It made me stop and think about how easy it is to confuse watching and guessing with knowing. Scrolling through someone’s life isn’t the same as being part of it. The real stuff, the quiet moments, the messy parts, the actual human-being things, that’s all off‑screen life. That’s real space, real time, real life.

A clever social media exchange isn’t a relationship. Real connection takes a voice. It takes time and effort. It takes a “how are you really” that someone actually means and someone actually listens to.

Here’s my point: if you want to know me, reach out… even if it’s online. I’m right here, same place I’ve always been.

Just needed to say that out loud.

wcd

Sometimes You Win by Walking Away

 

Sometimes You Win by Walking Away

In those wide-eyed, sleepless hours

that often finds me late at night,

flipping through my mental Rolodex,

Remembering the times I walked away.

Not in anger, tears, or defeat, but when my soul exhaled and said, “Enough. You can quit."

In crazy games of midnight recall,

I realize the wisdom in choosing the other road;

the one that didn’t applaud, offer explanations, or have a last word.

Just a slow embrace of the peace I kept putting off;

My exit doors never needed slamming.

Some fights never even needed my name.

And my stories ended best when I closed them out gently, with a mind that was tired but still steady.

Walking away wasn’t losing.

It was honoring the part of me

that knew the difference

between holding on and holding back.

And when I finally moved forward,

mostly hesitant and unsure,

I carried something with me that no one can take:

the quiet victory of choosing myself,

And that I am going to be okay.

wcd

The Art of Pouting (Boudé "boo-day" in Cajun French)

 

The Art of Pouting

(Boudé "boo-day" in Cajun French)

When you’re young,

They call it pouting.

They tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself,

Wipe your face.

Move on.

I've heard feeling sorry for yourself is a bad habit,

Something you’ll probably outgrow

Once you learn better words.

But it doesn’t disappear.

It gets educated.

It becomes strategic.

Refined.

Quietly sharpened.

We learn how to turn pity into a tool,

not loud enough to be called complaining,

just precise enough

to suggest life has been unusually unfair to you.

These weapons aren’t meant to draw blood.

They’re meant to draw attention.

A pause.

A question.

An acknowledgment

that you’ve been wronged in ways that deserve notice.

And nothing stings more

than when no one notices at all.

So you sprinkle comments into conversations,

harmless on the surface,

just bitter enough underneath.

Little remarks designed to linger longer than they should.

You start keeping time.

Not on a clock face,

But in your head.

It’s been three hours

since anyone asked if you were okay.

Six since someone really looked at you.

The tug of war sets in.

You know better.

You are better.

But still, some part of you

needs someone else

to see how bad off you really are.

You wish people a good day

with practiced politeness,

while secretly saving the details

of how miserable yours has been,

Just in case someone asks.

And when they don’t,

when all else fails,

You go quiet.

You stop replying.

You step back just far enough

to be noticeable if anyone is paying attention.

You wait to see

If the absence will do

What honesty couldn’t:

spark a call,

a text,

proof that you mattered enough

to be missed.

Pouting is the art form no one admits to practicing.

The careful balance between dignity and need.

The silent hope

that someone will see through the performance

and ask anyway.