Some People Just Don’t Like You. And That’s Fine.

26 Feb

The light was doing that late-day California thing — molten gold sliding across the grass while a faint breeze moved through the yard. The three dogs chased each other in ecstatic loops, drunk on freedom and the smell of something invisible and thrilling. We were leaning back in patio chairs, cracking open cans of Diet Coke like it was a ceremony.

And I was future-tripping.

I told her about the situation I’m in — one of those quietly charged crossroads that doesn’t look dramatic on paper but feels loaded in the chest. Two possible directions. Both appealing. Both viable. Both likely to make some people happy — and others not so much.

It’s not a moral crisis. It’s not life-or-death. It’s simply this: at some point, choosing one thing means not choosing another. And I’ve been circling the decision like it’s a live wire, convinced that whichever way I lean, I’ll end up disappointing someone. Maybe more than someone. Maybe a few someones.

No one has attacked me. No one has threatened exile. This is entirely anticipatory. Entirely self-generated. But in my head, the verdicts are already written. The whispers are already forming. The subtle shift in tone, the tightening of smiles — I can see it all before anything has even happened.

“If I go this way,” I said, “I’ll look like an asshole. If I go that way, this other group will be all over me.”

I’ve spent enough years in recovery to know what I was doing. I was trying to control perception before it formed. Trying to pre-negotiate approval. Trying to solve a problem that didn’t exist yet.

She let me spiral for a minute. Then she cut it clean.

“Are there people you don’t like?”

Sarcastically, I replied, “None that come to mind.”

“No,” she said. “Really. Are there people you don’t like?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Plenty.”

“And there are people who don’t like you, right?”

“Absolutely.”

She shrugged. “Same with me. But look around.”

The dogs were crashing through a patch of sun like pagan deities celebrating something ancient and unspeakable. The air was warm but softening. No one was condemning anyone. No tribunal had assembled. No torches. No pitchforks.

Just two humans and three dogs on a Tuesday evening.

“Look how nice this is. Some people don’t like us, but here we are, having a nice time, anyway.”

That was the satori.

Not that you should become indifferent or reckless. Not that other people’s feelings don’t matter. But that you cannot build a life around hypothetical disapproval. I’ve done that before. Delayed decisions. Softened truths. Withheld action. Tried to thread the needle so perfectly that no one could object.

And sometimes it worked. Often it didn’t. But every time I prioritized imagined backlash over my own alignment, something inside me faded. Self-respect leaks slowly.

I was reminded that compassion isn’t self-erasure. You can consider others without sacrificing yourself on the altar of their discomfort. And if someone is determined to misunderstand you, they will. If someone needs you to be the villain in their story, you will be cast.

The dogs don’t care. They sprint. They tumble. They bark. They exist. They don’t hold committee meetings about optics.

We sat there, sipping cold soda, fully aware that somewhere, someone probably doesn’t like us very much, as the sun set on another gorgeous coastal evening.

Liberation isn’t getting universal approval — it’s realizing you don’t need it. If you live long enough with integrity, you will disappoint people; but if you live trying not to, you will disappoint yourself.

Pick your cost.

The sun dipped. The light thinned. The dogs slowed to a satisfied trot. Nothing exploded. No judgment thundered down from the sky.

Just evening.

And the quiet understanding that fear makes a terrible compass.