One of the things I’ve been sitting with lately is this quiet fear — that my openness, my honesty here, might push people away. Not because I’m attacking them, but because they might see themselves in my writing and feel exposed, or worry they’re being “called out.”

And that’s not my intention. That’s never been the point of this blog.

The truth is: I don’t use names, and I don’t plan to. But I do write about how things affect me — especially when I don’t feel seen or when something small lands deeper than it was meant to. Because sometimes people don’t notice. They don’t ask. They don’t realize that a joke touched a wound I’ve spent years trying to heal.

And it would be too much to point it out every time — to stop the room, explain the entire history behind a subtle facial expression or the way my body tensed. That’s not always appropriate. But writing? Writing is how I understand myself. It’s how I reflect. How I release. How I make room for softness in a world that rarely rewards it.

I am a sensitive man.
Far more sensitive than most men — maybe more than most women too.
And I’ve spent most of my life rejecting that part of myself.

I was told it was too much.
Too intense.
Too feminine.
Too… inconvenient.

And yet, that same sensitivity is what allows me to comfort others when they’re hurting.
It’s what makes people feel safe with me.
It’s what allows me to write like this.

But it’s also what gets judged when I say, “That hurt.”
It’s loved when it soothes, but questioned when it sets a boundary.

Still, I’m tired of shaming it.
And while I may not be completely free of that shame yet, I am learning to carry it with more grace.
To be kinder to the boy in me who was told to toughen up.

If anyone ever did have a problem with what I write, I’d welcome a conversation.
If they can bring it to me, we can talk.
If they can’t, then maybe there isn’t a connection deep enough to worry about losing.

I’m not writing this blog to blame or expose anyone.
I’m writing because I’m trying to find a place where my sensitivity can live.

A place where my love for truth — even the harsh or philosophical kind, the kind Nietzsche explored — can sit beside my softness.
A place where thought and feeling aren’t at war.

That, to me, is a beautiful kind of strength.

Because I believe now — maybe for the first time — that hiding myself is the worst crime I could possibly commit.

So I’ll keep writing.

Not for validation. Not for vengeance.

But because this is how I stay free.