As I gracefully mature, I’ve noticed something magical happening—my fuse is shrinking.

Not because I’m about to blow like a rogue firecracker, but because I simply can’t be bothered to babysit grown adults’ egos.

Life’s too short to tiptoe around fragile sensibilities. I’m not mean; I’m just seasoned—and I’ve officially retired from the Olympic sport of people-pleasing.

Eventually, you reach a point where time becomes precious. Not in a delicate, porcelain teacup kind of way—more like: don’t waste it or I will reclaim it without apology. I’ve seen enough people play emotional tug-of-war with their partners, silently torturing each other into submission like it’s some twisted domestic chess match.

What I do have time for: peace, laughter, honesty, and people who don’t flinch when I speak my mind.

When we’re young, we think we know everything—armed with confidence, unearned certainty, and zero life experience. We strut around like emotional superheroes, capes flapping, convinced we’re untouchable. Arrogance isn’t intentional; it’s just that we haven’t been humbled yet. We haven’t hit the walls, lost the people, or watched things fall apart despite doing “everything right.”

But life— that patient teacher with a wicked sense of humour—eventually shows up with its syllabus of heartbreaks, betrayals, and reality checks. And it’s in the wreckage of those lessons that something shifts. People who’ve been hurt tend to care deeper, love harder, and look at others with a kind of quiet understanding. They’ve been in the dark and don’t flinch when someone else is standing there too.

Pain softens the sharp edges—not into weakness, but into awareness. You start to see people not as puzzles to solve or projects to fix, but as fellow survivors just trying to make it through. And that, oddly enough, makes the nonsense even more intolerable. Once you’ve tasted peace and earned your empathy, you no longer have the stomach for superficial connections or emotional high maintenance.

When you start showing up as your full, unapologetic self, the right people don’t run—they pull up a chair. Conversations get real, laughter gets louder, and love stops feeling like a battlefield and starts feeling like home.

Because at the end of the day, the goal isn’t to be liked by everyone—it’s to be loved, respected, and accepted by the ones who see you, truly see you, and still want in.

And those people? They’re worth every no, every boundary, and every door you gently closed behind you.

~