We really do subconsciously superimpose our beliefs on others’ (understanding of a predicament) when we alter our behavior for the benefit of others.
That’s what “put yourself in my shoes” means, right?
Problem is…
Example:
👥(a loving couple) couldn’t possibly want me (single lady) to put myself in their predicament at this moment, because I would flirt with every dude giving me the 😉 eye in hopes that they’ll join me at the ball (or whatever).
👥 want me to live the life that they’ve lived and THEN help 👥 make the best choice. 👥 doesn’t want me to have their 9yo mowing my lawn while I pick up a hottie giving me 😉 for “the ball”.
People don’t really want folks to put themselves in their shoes at that moment; they want a buddy who has gone through experiences as they have and THEN (with a 😐) tell them that Black people don’t still face discrimination in 2025 despite the #EmancipationProclamation being in effect since 1864.
This land wasn’t confiscated from the natives for people like me. 👩🏾🦱
I lived in the push and pull of this for so long. I have never been able to put the struggle into words. This is a beautiful echo of past pain. Because it does just that- it echoes.
This poem feels like someone confessing, with a kind of trembling honesty, that the world they see is often shaped more by old hurt than by what is actually happening.
The “trick mirror” becomes the mind itself bending light, softening truths, sharpening shadows, turning ordinary moments into threats.
There’s something deeply human in how a silence becomes a verdict, a half‑smile becomes a wound, and a softness becomes danger.
The poem names the mind as an unreliable narrator, tinting every moment with the ink of past pain before handing it back as “reality.”
It captures how inner weather can transform the same world into tenderness on one day and knives on the next.
The pause checking whether the monster is only a coat feels like the first fragile act of self‑trust returning.
It understands how longing can echo back as distance, how hunger for closeness can distort even the gentlest voice.
Clarity becomes an act of humility: admitting that sometimes it’s our own fear bending the light, not the world turning cruel.
Yet the poem never gives up on the possibility of gentleness it keeps looking, keeps reaching, keeps trying to meet reality without distortion.
In the end, it’s a soft, aching hope that one day we might see the world and ourselves with eyes no longer trained by doubt, but by tenderness.
You had me at “perception is a tricky mirror”😏
You truly did; despite the smirk.
We really do subconsciously superimpose our beliefs on others’ (understanding of a predicament) when we alter our behavior for the benefit of others.
That’s what “put yourself in my shoes” means, right?
Problem is…
Example:
👥(a loving couple) couldn’t possibly want me (single lady) to put myself in their predicament at this moment, because I would flirt with every dude giving me the 😉 eye in hopes that they’ll join me at the ball (or whatever).
👥 want me to live the life that they’ve lived and THEN help 👥 make the best choice. 👥 doesn’t want me to have their 9yo mowing my lawn while I pick up a hottie giving me 😉 for “the ball”.
People don’t really want folks to put themselves in their shoes at that moment; they want a buddy who has gone through experiences as they have and THEN (with a 😐) tell them that Black people don’t still face discrimination in 2025 despite the #EmancipationProclamation being in effect since 1864.
This land wasn’t confiscated from the natives for people like me. 👩🏾🦱
I wrote " inside the cave" which also tackles perception. Beautiful writing
I lived in the push and pull of this for so long. I have never been able to put the struggle into words. This is a beautiful echo of past pain. Because it does just that- it echoes.
This poem feels like someone confessing, with a kind of trembling honesty, that the world they see is often shaped more by old hurt than by what is actually happening.
The “trick mirror” becomes the mind itself bending light, softening truths, sharpening shadows, turning ordinary moments into threats.
There’s something deeply human in how a silence becomes a verdict, a half‑smile becomes a wound, and a softness becomes danger.
The poem names the mind as an unreliable narrator, tinting every moment with the ink of past pain before handing it back as “reality.”
It captures how inner weather can transform the same world into tenderness on one day and knives on the next.
The pause checking whether the monster is only a coat feels like the first fragile act of self‑trust returning.
It understands how longing can echo back as distance, how hunger for closeness can distort even the gentlest voice.
Clarity becomes an act of humility: admitting that sometimes it’s our own fear bending the light, not the world turning cruel.
Yet the poem never gives up on the possibility of gentleness it keeps looking, keeps reaching, keeps trying to meet reality without distortion.
In the end, it’s a soft, aching hope that one day we might see the world and ourselves with eyes no longer trained by doubt, but by tenderness.