Last week, we talked about feeling two things at once. We talked about Brioche’s husband, who was grieving and rebuilding. He was loving and mourning, being happy, yet haunted.

If you didn’t read it, it’s one to go back to, because what stayed with me wasn’t just his grief. It was this: no matter how much he explained himself, someone somewhere would still decide he was the villain; and the thing is, maybe in their version of the story, he actually was.

Did he deserve a custodial sentence because he loved for a quarter of a century and it went tits up? Should anyone get to vote on how he moves on, with whom, or how quickly? Did he need to justify why, every time he picked up his guitar, all he could see was Brioche’s smile? Would there be a crowd ready to crucify him for that? Absolutely. There would also be another crowd ready to defend him just as loudly.

That’s the thing about people. Those who get it, get it. Those who don’t… don’t.

…and somewhere in the middle of unpicking his story, I realised something uncomfortable. I have been guilty of over-explaining my life. I have been guilty of explaining why I missed a call. Why I couldn’t talk. Why I attended. Why I declined. Why I am leaner. Why I am thicker. Why I wore red. Why I wore black. Where I went. With whom. For how long. It is as though I owed a public relations statement every time I made a decision, and as though transparency was the same thing as permission. It isn’t.

So, I ran an experiment. I stopped explaining. I didn’t justify missed calls. I didn’t soften my no with a thesis. I didn’t offer disclaimers before setting boundaries. I didn’t provide footnotes for my growth. And do you know what happened? Some people filled in the gaps anyway. Some assumed. Some speculated. Some created entire narratives out of silence. And I let them. Because here is a truth that took me too long to learn: Not everyone deserves a front row seat with popcorn while your life plays on their big screen. And if they insist on watching from the balcony, interpreting your choices through their own lens, that is also absolutely fine. What they conclude is their responsibility. What I choose is mine.

The only person I owe justification to is myself. Am I acting in integrity? Am I aligned with my values? Am I at peace with the decision? That is the only courtroom that matters.

Brioche’s husband likely reached that place long before I did. He would always be someone’s villain. Too soon. Too public. Too human. Too close to home. Too flawed. And perhaps in certain chapters he was.

But living your life trying to edit yourself into everyone else’s comfort zone is a slow death. You shrink. You hesitate. You dilute your own story. So I sent him a message.

The week before, it had been a long epistle. Careful. Considered. Explained.

This week, it simply said:

“I hope you are ok.”

There was no justification, no disclaimers, no positioning. Because everyone — you, me, all of us — deserves to be ok. Not perfect, approved or universally understood.

Just ok. And maybe that is the next step after feeling two things at once. You stop trying to reconcile yourself for public consumption. You stop auditioning for sympathy. You stop explaining why you chose what you chose. You let people misunderstand you if they must. You let silence do the work.

The #Unshakable truth is this:

Peace does not come from being explained correctly. It comes from being aligned internally. You will be the villain in someone’s story. You will be the hero in someone else’s. You will be misunderstood in rooms you once tried to impress. Let them. Your life is not a press conference. It is yours. And you do not owe everyone an explanation.

See you next week.

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