There’s this sentence I used to say all the time that I didn’t even realize was draining me:
“Let me explain.”
Someone misunderstood my boundary? Let me explain. Someone questioned my decision? Let me explain. Someone raised an eyebrow at literally anything I did? Let me fucking explain why I’m allowed to exist this way.
I thought I was being mature. You know, communicating well. Making sure people understood where I was coming from so there wouldn’t be any conflict.
But really? I was performing my identity for approval. And I was exhausted.
And I didn’t even know it until I stopped.
Look, there’s a difference between being accountable and constantly defending your existence. Between clarifying an actual miscommunication and living in this perpetual state of justification where you’re basically asking permission to make your own choices.
Somewhere around 40—actually, probably closer to 45 if I’m being honest—I realized: I’m done explaining myself to people who’ve already decided not to understand me.
And this isn’t about being an asshole. This isn’t about refusing to communicate or take responsibility when you actually fuck up. This is about the exhausting performance of constantly proving you have the right to be who you are.
The thing I didn’t realize I was doing
Here’s how it worked for me:
I’d set a boundary. Something simple like, “Hey, I can’t make it this weekend, I need some time to myself.”
And immediately—like IMMEDIATELY—I’d feel this panic. This need to justify it. To explain why. To make sure they knew I wasn’t a bad person, I was just tired, I’d had a rough week, I promise I’ll make it up to them next time, here’s my entire emotional backstory so you understand I’m still good.
You know what I mean?
I didn’t just say no. I performed an entire one-person show about why my no was acceptable. Why I deserved to have needs. Why it was okay for me to take up space.
I was asking for permission to have boundaries.
Or like, I’d make a choice that went against what someone expected. Moving to Costa Rica after the fire. Shaving my head at 52. Deciding to write a book in a way that felt honest instead of marketable.
And I’d find myself explaining. Defending. Justifying. Because somewhere deep down—and I didn’t even see this until my therapist pointed it out—I believed I needed permission to live my own life.
It wasn’t enough to make the choice. I needed everyone to understand it. To validate it. To confirm that I was still good.
That’s fucked up, right?
Every time I said “let me explain,” I was really saying: Please don’t think less of me. Please still see me as worthy. Please validate that I’m allowed to make this choice.
And that’s not communication. That’s a plea.
What this actually costs you
When you’re constantly explaining yourself, you’re living in what I call pseudo self—not your actual self.
Your pseudo self is the version of you that adapts, performs, edits. The one that says what people want to hear. The one that justifies its existence with logic and reason and perfectly crafted explanations.
Your solid self? That one just is.
It doesn’t need to explain. It doesn’t need permission. It doesn’t need to convince anyone that it has the right to exist.
And the shift from pseudo to solid—I’m still working on this, by the way, it’s not like I’ve arrived—it doesn’t happen through more explaining. It happens when you stop.
Here’s what started to change for me:
I stopped over-explaining my boundaries. “I can’t make it” became a complete sentence. If someone pushed, I’d repeat it. But I wouldn’t build a case for why I was allowed to say no.
I stopped defending my choices to people who weren’t actually asking—they were judging. Someone questioned why we moved to Costa Rica after the fire? I didn’t launch into this 20-minute explanation about housing markets and fresh starts and all the logical reasons. I just said: “Yeah, we did. It’s been good.”
I stopped performing my identity for people who’d already decided who I was. If someone thought I was being selfish, or reckless, or wrong—my explanation wasn’t going to change their mind anyway. So why waste the energy?
The people who get you don’t need the explanation. The people who don’t get you won’t accept it anyway.
What it actually feels like to stop
At first? Uncomfortable as hell.
Every time I didn’t explain myself, I felt this guilt. Like I was being rude. Like I owed people more. Like my silence was the same as not caring about them.
I remember the first time I just said “I can’t” without elaborating. Vanessa and I were supposed to go to this thing—I don’t even remember what it was—and I just wasn’t feeling it. And when someone asked why, I felt this panic rising up. All these words forming: Well, you see, we’ve been really busy, and we’re tired, and also we have this other thing coming up, and...
But I caught myself. And I just said: “We’re gonna pass on this one.”
That’s it.
And you know what? The person was fine. They were like, “Okay, cool, next time.”
I had been preparing for a trial that never came.
But then something else happened. I noticed that the people who actually respected me didn’t need the explanations. They trusted that I had my reasons. They didn’t require a performance to validate my choices.
And the people who kept pushing? The ones who couldn’t accept a boundary without a dissertation on why it was justified? They were revealing something about themselves, not me.
They weren’t confused. They were uncomfortable with my autonomy.
And that’s when it really clicked: explaining myself had never been about clarity. It had been about maintaining other people’s comfort at the expense of my own.
The promise I keep making to myself
Look, I’m 52 now. And one of the promises I made to myself when I turned 35—and I have to keep remaking it, by the way, it’s not like you promise once and you’re done—was this: I will never be who I was yesterday.
Not in a toxic hustle way. Not in a “always grinding” way. But in a constant evolution way. I will keep shedding the versions of myself that don’t fit anymore.
And the biggest version I’ve shed? The one that needed permission to exist.
I don’t need you to understand why I made the choice I made. I don’t need you to agree with my boundary. I don’t need you to validate that I’m allowed to change my mind, or shave my head, or move countries, or write books that my parents will never understand.
I’m done explaining myself. Not because I don’t care. But because I finally do—about myself.
The people who matter? They’ll trust me without the dissertation.
The people who don’t? My explanation was never going to be enough anyway.
And honestly? That’s their work, not mine.
When was the last time you explained yourself when you didn’t actually owe anyone an explanation? What would change if you just... stopped?