Track 21: The Red Wedding

If you’ve ever watched Game of Thrones, then you know exactly what people mean when they reference the Red Wedding.

A room full of smiles.

Music playing.

People raising glasses and celebrating love.

And hidden inside the celebration… betrayal with a sprinkle of dry hateration in the dancery.

Ironically, red was also the color of our wedding.

And over time, I’ve realized something about weddings that nobody really talks about.

Not everyone who shows up is there because they love you. Some people show up because it looks good. Some show up because being seen supporting you benefits them socially.

And some show up because guilt is a powerful motivator.

Because when you’ve been talking about someone behind their back, smiling in their face is the easiest way to quiet your conscience.

It’s performative as fuck.

The hugs.

The pictures.

The applause.

The speeches about love and loyalty.

All of it looks real in the moment.

But time has a funny way of revealing the difference between celebration and other people’s insecurities taking center stage.

Because the truth is, there were people at (and some in) our wedding who today wouldn’t be invited to piss on us if we were on fire.

And if we’re being honest, they probably wouldn’t come anyway. Not unless it made them look good. Not unless it benefited them.

Not unless they could stand in the light and pretend they’ve been rooting for you the whole time.

That’s the part that fascinates me.

If you don’t like someone, getting the fuck is free.

You don’t have to attend our milestones.

You don’t have to celebrate our love.

You don’t have to stand beside us in photos that will live forever.

But some people don’t want distance.

They want access.

Access to your life. Access to your joy. Access to your light. Access to the things you’ve worked hard for.

Even if they’re quietly rooting against you once they leave it.

And the moment you start protecting your peace, setting boundaries, or pulling back from people who move funny… suddenly you’re the villain. Suddenly you’re the person who sliced a hole in their air mattress.

Now you’re “different.”

Now you’re “distant.”

Now you’re “hard to reach.”

But boundaries don’t ruin real relationships.

They expose performative ones. And once you see the difference clearly, you stop begging people to be something they were never trying to be.

At this stage in my life, I respect distance far more than I respect deception.

If you don’t rock with me, that’s cool.

Just don’t clap for me in public while quietly hoping I fail in private. We are far too grown for that. And I see you.

When you start paying attention, you begin to notice the different roles people play in these performances.

Some of them are family. Blood, chosen, or inherited.

Family members who sat in those chairs, watched us exchange vows, smiled for photos, and clapped when the room expected them to.

The same family members who had already spent years calling us every name in the book behind closed doors. The same ones telling anyone who would listen how much they didn’t approve. But on that day, their conscience needed a costume.

So they wore artificial smiles.

Because it’s easier to perform support for a few hours than to explain to the world why you refused to show up. At least the ones who didn’t show up were bold enough to keep it real about why they weren’t there.

Then there were the ones standing by our sides.

The ones who held flowers. The ones who straightened ties. The ones who gave speeches about love, loyalty, and friendship.

People who stood beside us in front of everyone while, behind the scenes, they were actively narrating our lives to anyone willing to listen and throwing spice on it. Dry hating in the very rooms we opened doors for them to enter.

That kind of betrayal is almost impressive in a strange way.

Because it takes a certain level of commitment to stand that close to someone while quietly rooting against them and hating them for having something you lack.

And then there’s another kind of betrayal that people don’t talk about enough.

The mentor. The person you look up to. The person who presents themselves as someone guiding you forward. Someone who tells you they see your potential. Someone who claims to want you to win.

Until the moment the student starts thinking for themselves. Until the moment the student starts outgrowing the teacher. Because suddenly the encouragement changes.

Now you need to “stay humble.”

Now you should “be grateful for the opportunity.”

Now you’re reminded who opened the door for you.

And sometimes the same person smiling in your face, liking your pictures, and congratulating your progress is quietly working behind the scenes to make your life harder.

Not because you wronged them.

But because your rise threatens their spotlight. And some people would rather sabotage you quietly than risk being outshined publicly.

That’s the thing about time.

It reveals who was celebrating you…

and who was simply attending the show.

The funny thing about all of this is that none of it made sense to me for a long time.

Because if you know me, you know I’ve always been the kind of person who opens doors.

I share rooms.

I make introductions.

I try to make space for the people around me to win too.

That’s just how I was raised. That’s how I love.

So it took me a while to understand something that should have been obvious.

Not everybody in your life wants the same things you want for yourselves. Some want it for themselves instead. Some people want the access without the loyalty. Some want the proximity without the responsibility.

Some want to stand next to the light without ever wanting you to shine brighter than them.

And when you realize that, you start replaying moments differently.

The smiles look a little different.

The speeches land a little differently.

The compliments feel… rehearsed.

It’s like watching an old movie again after you already know the plot twist.

Suddenly you can see the clues that were there the whole time. The sideways comments. The subtle digs disguised as jokes. The people who celebrated you loudly in public but had a completely different energy in private rooms.

And that’s when the realization finally hits.

Some people weren’t there because they loved us. They were there because being seen loving us looked better than the truth.

And when you see it clearly, it’s not even anger that shows up.

It’s clarity.

Because at the end of the day, I still believe something simple.

If someone doesn’t rock with you, that’s their right.

But the performance?

The smiling in my face while rooting against me in private?

That’s the part that will always confuse me.

Because life is too short to spend that much energy pretending.

So here’s the question I’ll leave you with.

When you think about the people you invite into your most intimate moments… the weddings, the celebrations, the milestones that mark your life…

who is actually showing up with love?

And who is simply showing up to be seen?

Because the older I get, the more I realize something simple.

Everyone who celebrates with you is not celebrating you.

And sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for your peace…

is pay attention to not only who’s clapping, but when.