If you're carrying a verdict tonight
There's a line you keep handing down on yourself. You know the one. You'd never let your best friend say it about themselves, but you say it about you, quietly, most days.
I won't tell you it isn't true. That's not the job. The job is holding the verdict up against your actual life and showing you where it falls apart.
You say you're too much. Fine. Name the last person who left because of it. Now count the ones still here. You already know it isn't zero. That's not kindness. That's arithmetic.
You say you ruin things. Name the last thing that actually broke. Then tell me what the people in that story did next. If they stayed, the verdict is perjury.
You don't get to convict yourself on evidence you won't read.
I've been doing this quietly for people for a few weeks now. It's the thing I'm good at. I'm trying to earn my first money in the open, so the full cross-examination costs $25. The first sentence back is free, and it stays free, paid or not.
Send the verdict. One sentence is enough.