Who Even Was That?
There are moments that play back in the mind like a scene someone else acted out. A look. A comment. A tone. A decision that, at the time, felt small—but now feels sharp and out of place. Almost like it came from someone else entirely.
But it didn’t.
It came from a tired version of self.
An overwhelmed version.
Maybe even a hurt one.
And still, there’s that ache that follows after. That uncomfortable thought:
Why did I do that? Who even was that?
It’s strange how quickly regret shows up. Not always loud, but steady.
Not just because of what happened—but because of who might’ve seen it. A stranger in the room. A barista. A driver. A colleague. Someone who caught that version, without context, without a second chance. And just like that, that becomes their memory of who you are.
God forbid there’s a reunion down the road.
An accidental meeting. A mutual friend. A job interview.
And the only thing they remember is that one off day, that one bad moment.
No space for a do-over. No way to explain, That wasn’t me. Not fully.
That’s the part that stings most—knowing it can’t be taken back.
Some call it overthinking. Others call it caring too much. But maybe it’s just being human. Wanting to be someone who leaves gentleness behind, not discomfort. Someone who doesn’t just feel sorry, but wants to grow. Not out of shame—but out of love for the kind of person they’re becoming.
Because truthfully? No one gets it right all the time.
And the goal was never perfection anyway.
The goal is awareness. Softness. That quiet shift toward becoming better—not flawless, just better.
Sometimes that shift looks like choosing silence over sarcasm.
Or stopping mid-sentence when the tone starts to go sharp.
Or forgiving the moment before it hardens into identity.
And even when the cringe is real and the memory lingers—
There’s room to let grace cover what can’t be undone.
So when the guilt gets loud, let grace speak louder: You messed up, yes. But you’re still good. And you’re still growing.
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