Interlude: I Am Not a Houseplant You Can Move to the Corner
I have tried.
I have tried to be small.
Polite.
Digestible.
I've tried to sit quietly in rooms where I felt like a decorative throw pillow.
You know the ones.
The rooms where you weren’t invited by the host... just tolerated because someone loves you.
The rooms where your laugh feels too loud.
Your spirituality feels too weird.
Your sobriety feels inconvenient.
Your existence feels like it needs a disclaimer.
Hi. Yes. That’s me.
The disclaimer.
“Don’t worry, she’s actually nice.”
“She’s just into plants.”
“She’s in recovery.”
“She’s… different.”
I'm not different.
I'm developed.
There’s a difference.
You don’t get to survive what I’ve survived and come out beige.
I didn’t claw my way out of rock bottom on October 24th just to sit in someone’s dining room pretending I don’t take up space.
I didn’t build businesses from scratch.
I didn’t go back to school.
I didn’t design entire gardens out of dirt and grief
just to sit with my head down like I’m lucky to be there.
I'm not lucky to be tolerated.
And here’s the feral part:
If a room requires me to shrink to be acceptable,
that room is not holy.
You can go to church every Sunday and still not know how to love people.
You can say you value family and still make someone feel like an outsider.
You can smile and still be unkind.
And I can be soft
and still walk out.
Because here’s what nobody tells you about becoming the woman you needed when you were younger:
She doesn’t beg to be included.
She evaluates the energy like a wolf.
She clocks who pulls their kid away from her at goodbye.
She remembers.
But she doesn’t explode.
She just adjusts access.
And if I sit in a corner, it’s not because I feel small.
It’s because I’m observing.
There’s a difference.
I'm not a houseplant you can move to the corner when company comes over.
I'm the entire greenhouse.
And I don’t wilt because someone doesn’t like my light.
I just grow somewhere warmer.
—
Soft.
Still dangerous.
