Track 12: Not Your Cup of Tea

Before we even get into this, let me say this. I sat on this post for a minute because it is uncomfortable. But I said what I said. LOL And I am releasing it into the universe with the hope that it helps somebody. Maybe it gives you something to talk through with your therapist. Maybe it opens a door for a hard conversation with your support system. Maybe it just makes you feel a little less alone. Either way, here it is.

My whole life I have had this quiet gut feeling that people just did not like me. I could never explain it as a kid. I just knew I was always the last one picked at recess, the one skipped over for solos, the one nobody fought to stand beside. I did not have the words for it then, but I carried the weight of it everywhere I went.

As a child, I thought everybody was my friend. I wanted to share my toys, love on people, and just belong. But my brother and cousin used to kick me out when I wanted to play video games with them, so I learned early that my Mom was my safe space. I stayed up under her because that was where I felt wanted. Even then my grandfather would tell me to get from up under her and go play. I did not understand what any of that meant, but it planted something in me. Something heavy.

I spent my childhood trying to prove I was enough for people who decided I wasn’t before I even opened my mouth. I tried to prove I was just as important to my Dad as my lightskin siblings, even when it was clear he showed up for them in ways I felt he didn’t show up for me. I tried to prove I mattered just as much as my cousin Vonni to my Gramma, because even though she showered all of us with love, Vonni was always the favorite. And when it came to my Grandpa Walter and my Grandma Celeste, I always felt like my sister and I had to prove we weren’t the “lesser” grandkids. I didn’t understand as a child that they saw my father in me and held that against us. I just knew I felt like I was always standing on the outside looking in. Always at the bottom of the totem pole.

When I look back at that boy now, I see someone who learned to shrink himself because he believed nobody really cared anyway. Someone who started burying his light so nobody would have a reason to snuff it out. Even with that, the kid in me stayed resilient. I bounced back every time. But the hits added up. Being skipped for solos made me question my talent. Being excluded made me question my personality. I grew into an introvert who learned how to extrovert to survive. A big heart that stays bottled up because I never knew who would treat my softness like something to take advantage of.

And then I met Shobe.

When we got together in 2016, I felt like I finally had space to breathe. Space to be loved without auditioning for it. Space where I didn’t have to earn my worth every day. I had this dope man who saw me, who chose me, who didn’t need me to prove anything. I did not want to disrupt that by pointing out the vibes I picked up from some of the people around him. It wasn’t my place to declare someone toxic or call out the ways they used him. So I stayed quiet unless he asked for my thoughts. My role was to stand beside him, love him loudly, and help him pick up the pieces when someone broke his heart.

But the truth always reveals itself. Over time, I noticed a pattern. Some of the people closest to him, the ones he thought would be happy for him, found reasons not to like me without ever taking the time to know me. A few made comments that made me feel like I did not belong. Some brought up his ex every chance they got, comparing me to someone I never met. Others acted like I wasn’t good enough for Shobe or didn’t measure up.

I told myself to push it to the back of my mind because that was his family and his people. I was here for the long haul. But eventually it got louder. There were moments where someone would distance themselves from him and somehow my name ended up in the story. A few even spread rumors about me to anyone that would listen, calling me a gold digger or saying I was the reason he changed.

All of that hurt, not because I needed their approval, but because I never gave them a reason to dislike me. I was always respectful. Always inviting. Always rooting for him to fix things when relationships fractured. I cared for them because they were his people. I helped some with jobs. I opened our home. I said yes even when I should have said no. So being painted as the problem was confusing and disappointing.

A few friends and family drifted because he wasn’t as accessible as he used to be. They saw him growing, healing, and setting boundaries. They saw him choosing peace instead of their chaos. And instead of admitting they missed the version of him they could pull on and use, they blamed me.

And that is where the childhood wound crept in. That quiet voice whispering that I was the common denominator. That maybe I really was the problem.

I remember telling Shobe that, and he said, “They’re using you as an excuse because I wanted better for myself.”

He meant it to comfort me, and I appreciated it, but it didn’t hit me right away. It felt like something he said to make me feel better. But the more I sat with it, the more it revealed itself as truth.

People didn’t dislike me because of who I am. They disliked me because of what my presence disrupted. They disliked the boundaries I supported. They disliked the love that created distance between them and the version of him they benefited from. They disliked the stability we built together. They disliked losing access. Losing convenience. Losing control.

I was never the villain. I was the mirror.

And mirrors make people uncomfortable when they are not ready to see themselves.

So no, I am not everybody’s cup of tea. I have lived a whole life feeling like the least favorite, the one left out, the one misunderstood. But now I see something I never saw before. I was never meant to be the favorite. I was meant to be the truth. The shift. The boundary. The reminder that love is not something you earn through pain and sacrifice. It is something you grow when you stop shrinking.

Over time I unpacked a lot of the things I felt from my family. I gave myself space to look at the love they did offer, even if it didn’t always look like what I needed as a child. I learned to hold space for the ways they showed up while releasing the hurt I carried from the ways they didn’t. Once I did that, I realized something important. As long as I have my closest friends and the family who truly love me, I don’t care who doesn’t like me. My circle is enough. My home is enough. My peace is enough.

And that is what I want you to take with you. Stop giving your energy to the people who choose not to see you. Stop centering the opinions of people who could not love you even on your best day. Love the ones who do. Lean into the hands that hold you. Unpack the uncomfortable things you buried. Nourish the unconditional love that surrounds you. And be for yourself the person others could not be for whatever reason.

You are enough. Your story is enough. Your presence is enough. And anyone’s opinion of you is nothing more than background noise in the beautiful symphony of your life.