Catching Myself

I know what it feels like to be judged.

To be misunderstood.

To feel the weight of someone else deciding who I am

based on a moment

they didn’t fully see.

I’ve walked through that.

Haven’t we all?

And if I’m honest,

I’ve also looked at someone and thought,

What. A. Train Wreck.

Not out loud.

But it was there.

Sometimes it’s even my first reaction.

And then I catch myself. 

Because I remember what it feels like to be seen at my worst and have someone assume that’s my whole story.

I remember what grief can do.

What depression can do.

How exhaustion or disappointment can quietly reshape a person

into someone they barely recognize.

Someone they’re not proud of.

And once I remember all that,

I’m not so sure I know anything at all

about the person standing in front of me.

There’s a verse in the Gospel of Matthew

about noticing the splinter in someone else’s eye

while missing the beam in our own.

It’s not subtle.

It’s not supposed to be.

Because the truth is, we almost never have the full story.

And sometimes people are hard to love.

Not because they don’t deserve it,

but because we don’t understand them.

Because we’re only seeing a sliver.

A moment.

Because judging is quicker than being patient.

But when I stop,

when I remember,

when I choose differently,

love becomes possible again.

Not easy.

But possible.

Patient.

Gentler.

Forgiving.

The kind of love I know I’ve needed on more than one occasion.

So as a work in progress, I’m trying to choose that kind of love over quick judgment.

For their story.

For whatever brought them in front of me.

For the weight they might be carrying that I cannot see.

Because I’ve been there,

on both sides,

and I pray I’m afforded the same grace.