When We Spoke the Same Language
Sometimes “I don’t understand” is less about clarity and more about refusal.
We were speaking the same language.
Same words. Same grammar. Same meeting agenda.
And still, I was told they didn’t understand what I was saying.
Not because the ideas were unclear. Not because the questions were unreasonable. But because understanding me required effort they didn’t intend to make.
I explained myself again. More slowly. More carefully.
I watched my ideas land when someone else repeated them—suddenly legible, suddenly reasonable.
That’s when I realized this wasn’t about language.
It was about willingness.
Being told I don’t understand you can sound neutral. Professional. Even polite.
But when it happens repeatedly—when clarity is demanded only from you—it becomes something else.
A way to stall. A way to dismiss. A way to maintain comfort without engaging your truth.
And then there was my name.
Spoken incorrectly. Repeated incorrectly. Left uncorrected after gentle reminders.
I listened as others’ names were learned quickly, respected immediately, remembered without effort.
Mine became optional.
That’s how you know it’s not a mistake.
Names are the first language of respect.
To refuse someone’s name is to refuse their presence. To say, quietly, I see you, but I will not adjust.
I felt myself shrinking in that room.
Not because I lacked confidence, but because I was carrying the weight of being misunderstood on purpose.
There is a particular exhaustion that comes from being clear and still being told you are confusing.
From articulating yourself precisely and watching the burden of comprehension be placed entirely on you.
I started questioning my delivery. My tone. My phrasing.
But my body knew the truth before my mind accepted it.
This was not miscommunication.
It was dismissal.
Water taught me something here.
Water doesn’t keep explaining itself to a container that refuses to hold it. It doesn’t debate its clarity. It moves toward spaces where it is received.
I stopped over-explaining. Stopped rephrasing truths that were already clear. Stopped apologizing for being understood selectively.
I corrected my name—once more, clearly. And then I paid attention to what happened next.
Who adjusted. Who resisted. Who revealed themselves through their response.
Because people show you who they are when you ask them to meet you with basic respect.
If you have been in rooms where your words are questioned more than others’, where your name is treated as optional, where misunderstanding feels strategic—
You are not unclear. You are not difficult. You are not asking for too much.
You are asking for presence.
And presence requires effort.
Not everyone is willing to give it.
That doesn’t diminish you.
It clarifies where you belong.
Now, when I enter rooms, I listen differently.
Not just to what is said—but to who is asked to explain themselves, and who is believed the first time.
And when I notice refusal—to listen, to learn, to say my name correctly—I don’t shrink anymore.
I make a quiet decision.
Some rooms are not meant to hold you.
And leaving them—without argument, without apology—is not retreat.
It is water choosing where it can finally flow freely.