This one feels a little more personal.
Yesterday I was looking at how quickly I decide what things mean. Today goes one step further and says, basically, Yes. And you’re the one who put the meaning there.
Which is mildly annoying.
Because I would much rather believe the meaning is simply sitting out there in the world, attached to people and situations like a price tag. She ignored me, therefore I’m unimportant. He criticized me, therefore I failed. They have more than I do, therefore I’m behind.
It feels so obvious when I’m in it.
But then I think about how differently two people can experience the exact same thing.
A quiet house can feel peaceful to one person and lonely to another. Money can mean freedom, security, power, worry, guilt, or never enough. A wedding ring can mean love to one person and loss to someone else. Even something as ordinary as a kitchen table can carry years of family dinners, arguments, holidays, homework, or the memory of somebody who isn’t sitting there anymore.
The thing itself isn’t telling me what to feel about it.
I brought something to it.
And people… well, that’s where this gets harder.
I don’t just see my husband. I see my husband plus twenty years of history, the argument from last week, the thing I wish he did differently, the ways he has loved me, the ways I’ve felt disappointed, and whatever mood I happen to be in before he even walks through the door.
That’s a lot for one man to be standing underneath while he’s just trying to find his keys.
The same thing happens with almost everyone.
I don’t see the friend who hasn’t texted back. I see her through whatever meaning I’ve attached to silence.
I don’t see the woman who seems more successful than I am. I see her through my own ideas about where I should be by now.
I don’t even look at myself in the mirror without bringing a whole history with me. Age. Beauty. Comparison. The picture from ten years ago I apparently believe I should still look exactly like.
Nothing gets to arrive alone.
I’m already there waiting for it with a story.
And I don’t think the point is that all of those stories are ridiculous or meaningless. Some of them come from real experiences. If someone has betrayed me before, of course certain things may carry more weight. If I grew up worrying about money, a bank balance may stir up something deeper than numbers on a screen.
The problem comes when I forget that I’m looking through all of that.
Then my meaning becomes the meaning.
And suddenly I’m not saying, “This situation makes me afraid.”
I’m saying, “This situation is frightening.”
Not, “Her opinion touches my insecurity.”
But, “Her opinion proves something about me.”
Not, “I associate this with failure.”
But, “This is failure.”
That’s a pretty big difference.
And I can see how much freedom there might be in noticing it.
Not because I have to erase every meaning I’ve ever given something. Good luck with that. I’ve had decades to build some of these stories; I doubt they’re going to politely pack up and leave because I did a morning spiritual practice.
But I can start noticing them.
That seems doable.
Maybe today I notice that I’ve given someone’s approval the meaning, I’m okay.
Which also means I’ve given their disapproval the meaning, I’m not.
Maybe I’ve given being busy the meaning, I’m valuable.
Or having a certain amount of money the meaning, Now I’m safe.
Or keeping everyone happy the meaning, Now I’m lovable.
Those meanings can quietly run an entire life.
And the tricky thing is, we can spend years trying to rearrange the outside world so we never have to question them.
If everyone likes me, I won’t have to deal with my fear of being disliked.
If I achieve enough, I won’t have to wonder whether I’m enough without achieving.
If this person behaves exactly the way I need them to, maybe I can finally relax.
Except people stubbornly continue being people, which ruins that plan rather quickly.
So maybe there’s another possibility.
Instead of asking the world to prove my meanings true—or protect me from the painful ones—I can start wondering where those meanings came from in the first place.
That’s what I want to notice today.
Not everything. Just one thing.
One person, one situation, one ordinary object that seems to carry a lot of emotional weight.
Maybe the answer surprises me.
Maybe the unread message means I’m being forgotten.
Maybe the messy house means I can’t keep up.
Maybe my child’s struggle means I’ve failed as a mother.
Maybe someone else’s success means there’s less possibility left for me.
Once I can hear the meaning, I have a choice I didn’t have when I thought it was simply reality.
I can question it.
I don’t even have to know the better meaning yet.
That part feels important.
I can simply admit, This is what I made it mean.
And maybe hold it a little more loosely.
Because there’s something very different about living in a world full of fixed meanings that are constantly telling me who I am…
and realizing I may have been the one writing some of those meanings all along.
That realization is a little unsettling.
But it also opens a door.
And today, I think just noticing the door is enough.