What I kept coming back to wasn’t the word itself, but how often we question who we are through the eyes of someone who is hurting. I’ve learned that other people’s judgments often tell us more about the story they’re living than the truth of who we are.
Your ending was so powerful. “I’d rather be the villain in someone else’s story than disappear from my own.” There is so much freedom in that.
Thank you for sharing this so honestly. I have a feeling your words will help many people find a little more courage to choose themselves.
Hi I’m truly very sorry for replying to you as late but please know that your words meant a lot to read. I loved your reflection and the ways my writing touched you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for not only reading, but also entering my words. You said it beautifully and I am very grateful for your presence here. 🤍
Yours is the story that matters so who cares what you are in theirs.
And you're writing doesn't suck no matter what that one guy said. Being attractive or sophisticated have nothing to do with it, not that you aren't those things, but honestly that stuff isn't even the point. You and your story are!
What stops this from being a clean redemption arc is that you leave the cheating in without sanding it down, and... you don't let Sri Lanka or London wash it off you either. Four people reach for the same word and you slowly stop letting any of them hold the pen, but you never pretend you always had the right to it. The captain never says it... his face does... and that's the one that reads worst, cuz... there's no sentence to argue with. I've been the friend editing someone else's texts on a pile of tyres and I've been the one going quiet for months, and both of them are in here without excuse. That last line is going to come out of my mouth someday and I'll know exactly whose it was. 😉
As a Crone-aged woman who has spent decades unlearning the roles others wrote for me, this stopped me in my tracks.
In my community we talk a lot about the witch wound — the deep, ancestral scar that comes from generations of women being punished simply for knowing themselves, trusting themselves, and refusing to make themselves smaller for someone else’s comfort. The word you wrote about is just its most modern expression.
What moves me most is that you’ve understood this at an age that took many of us so much longer to reach. You’re not just writing for yourself — you’re handing younger women a map that some of us had to draw in the dark.
‘I’d rather be the villain in someone else’s story than disappear from my own.’ That line is going to stay with me.
Thank you for writing this. It matters more than you know. 🌼🌙🔥🐚
I truly cannot express how much every word you shared with me, or more accurately, gifted me, means to me. It is such an honour to know that my words left an impression I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
Thank you for taking the time to tell me all of that. Thank you for reading my words with such presence and for stepping into my story so thoughtfully. It means more than I can say.
I know I’ll be coming back to this comment from time to time.🤍
What a gift to receive this. Your words moved something in me too — that's exactly why I stopped to write what I did. May you keep trusting your own voice, and keep telling your story exactly as only you can. Sending you light. 🌙
I felt exactly the same after reading your comment. I’m very grateful that you stopped by to leave a comment. May your presence forever leave blessings in its wake.🤍
that's the reframe the whole essay builds toward and it earns it. the word was never describing you — it was describing the moment you stepped outside the role they'd written for you. every story demands a villain and you finally stopped auditioning for it.
"i'd rather be the villain in someone else's story than disappear from my own." yes. that's the line.
It means the world to know that my story earned its ending. And truly it means the universe to know it landed as powerfully. Thank you so much for engaging so thoughtfully, as ever. 🤍
IMI what I admired most is that this essay refuses to let a single word remain a single word. "Bitch" begins as an insult, but by the end you've turned it into a lens through which to examine projection, identity, people-pleasing, and the danger of letting other people narrate your life.
What makes the piece compelling is that you never write from a place of self-exoneration. You admit to your own mistakes without trying to soften them, yet you also refuse to let those moments become permanent definitions. That distinction is both psychologically honest and surprisingly rare. It gives the essay its credibility.
I also loved the line, "I simply stopped treating their judgements as definitions." It feels like the quiet turning point of the entire piece. The transformation isn't that the world becomes kinder; it's that its verdicts lose their authority.
And then that closing... "Every story demands a villain. I'd rather be the villain in someone else's story than disappear from my own." It's one of those endings that doesn't merely conclude an essay—it reframes everything that came before it.
I'm happily subscribing because I enjoy writers who are willing to interrogate themselves with the same honesty they bring to everyone else. This felt less like a defence of your character than a meditation on how identity is so often negotiated between who we are and who others need us to be.
I’ve read your comment several times now, and I truly cannot express how grateful I am for every word you gifted me here. The part that stayed with me most was when you said I never tried to justify myself. That is exactly what I hoped this piece would do. I’ve always wanted my writing to be honest before anything else, so knowing that came through means more than I can say.
It also means so much that the line about no longer treating other people’s labels as definitions resonated with you. It was the heart of the essay, and knowing it landed exactly as I intended is incredibly moving.
Thank you for reading my words with such care and generosity. It is a genuine joy to have you in this community. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I know I’ll find myself coming back to this comment from time to time.
Imi, I am so glad you are free of what other people think you are or how they describe you or need you to be. You have come quite a long way! Congratulations! I would never call you a bitch!
Dear Jacqueline, thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being so sweet and thoughtful. You’re such a joy to interact with and a true blessing to share this journey with. Your kindness and generosity never go unnoticed, and I’m so grateful to have you here. ❤️
Imi, the essay is honest in a way most confessions only pretend to be, because you include the cheating without asking us to acquit you. That is rare.
But I want to push on your question, because I think the answer is even simpler and older than projection.
Notice who calls you the word, and when. A jealous friend at thirteen. A wounded boyfriend. A man whose love you declined. Three different wounds, one identical word.
That should tell you the word carries no information about you at all. It is not a description that fits badly; it is not a description.
It is a verdict pronounced at the exact moment a woman's will becomes inconvenient. You said it yourself, and it is the truest line in the piece: it names the moment you stepped outside the role they had written.
What makes a woman a bitch in a man's eyes? Nothing of this does. The word exists because there had to be a punishment for the woman who says no, who leaves, who does not soften the blow, who declines to manage a man's feelings about her own decisions.
A seventh-grader trading texts with a boy she barely knows has not yet done anything a grown word should attach to. She was practicing wanting things. The word arrived early to teach her that wanting things has a cost.
And here is the step further: the man who filled your inbox with rage did not misunderstand you. He understood perfectly that you were not his, and that word was his revenge for the understanding. Do not grant it even the dignity of a misunderstanding....
You closed by saying you'd rather be the villain in someone else's story than disappear from your own.
I would only add: you were never the villain in theirs either. You were the plot twist they didn't approve.
Sara I cannot say how much grateful I am to you and to your words for such a profound reflection. I got the chills several times as I read your words. I wanted to quote you so many times… You are right about everything you said. I’m honoured to be read like this. And I fell in love with your last sentence. “you were never the villain in theirs either. You were the plot twist they didn't approve,” that sentence will stay with me long after I closed the screen. ❤️
imi, you do something difficult here: you refuse to let accountability become self-erasure. You name the betrayal and secrecy without softening them, then trace how the same word later became a weapon whenever you stepped outside a role someone else had written for you. That movement gives the title its moral complexity: one insult can carry the pain of harm in one scene and the policing of autonomy in another. Grateful for the courage and precision with which you allowed remorse, projection, and self-possession to remain in the same story.
Thank you so much, Kevin. The distinction you drew between accountability and self-erasure stayed with me because that was one of the hardest tensions in the piece to hold. I wanted to name the harm I caused without allowing that harm to become the only possible definition of who I am.
What you said about the same word carrying both the pain of betrayal and the policing of autonomy captures the movement of the essay so precisely. I think that is what I was trying to understand while writing it: how a word can begin as a response to something real, then later be used to keep someone trapped inside a role they have already outgrown.
I’m deeply grateful for the care with which you read this, and for the generosity of your interpretation. Your comment made me feel genuinely seen.
imi, I receive your words with deep gratitude. The essay allows the person who caused harm and the person capable of change to occupy the same moral record, without asking either one to disappear. Accountability becomes credible when it can name what happened, require ownership, and still allow changed behavior to count as evidence.
A word becomes dangerous when it keeps its original charge after the person has grown beyond the role it once enforced; language stops describing conduct and begins governing identity. Your essay resists that captivity by making room for remorse, revision, and self-authorship to coexist. Thank you for trusting me with the tension you were carrying and for telling me that my reading helped you feel genuinely seen.
Funny how the same word can mean two completely different things. To one person, it means “You hurt me.” To another, it means “You stopped obeying the script I wrote for you. That’s where freedom quietly begins.
It’s so telling how we’re trained to perform for others. And it’s often when everything falls apart that we see that who’s left is us without the need to be labeled by anyone,including ourselves. Being at peace with who we truly are is no small thing. Loved going on this journey with you.
https://youtu.be/l3vAVhaIEIk?si=Xfkbs-5YwUJCxLaS
💯
Feel every word of this one. We can be bitches together.
I’d choose that everyday ❤️
This touched something in me.
What I kept coming back to wasn’t the word itself, but how often we question who we are through the eyes of someone who is hurting. I’ve learned that other people’s judgments often tell us more about the story they’re living than the truth of who we are.
Your ending was so powerful. “I’d rather be the villain in someone else’s story than disappear from my own.” There is so much freedom in that.
Thank you for sharing this so honestly. I have a feeling your words will help many people find a little more courage to choose themselves.
Hi I’m truly very sorry for replying to you as late but please know that your words meant a lot to read. I loved your reflection and the ways my writing touched you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for not only reading, but also entering my words. You said it beautifully and I am very grateful for your presence here. 🤍
Oh Imi...why is it like i am reading my own life stories.. there is a pain hidden in your words..thanks for trusting us to share such experiences 🙏
That truly means a lot to me Hina! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading and engaging with such presence. <3
Yours is the story that matters so who cares what you are in theirs.
And you're writing doesn't suck no matter what that one guy said. Being attractive or sophisticated have nothing to do with it, not that you aren't those things, but honestly that stuff isn't even the point. You and your story are!
You’re absolutely right. Thank you so much for engaging so thoughtfully. It truly means a lot to me 🤍
You’re welcome!
🫶🏻
What stops this from being a clean redemption arc is that you leave the cheating in without sanding it down, and... you don't let Sri Lanka or London wash it off you either. Four people reach for the same word and you slowly stop letting any of them hold the pen, but you never pretend you always had the right to it. The captain never says it... his face does... and that's the one that reads worst, cuz... there's no sentence to argue with. I've been the friend editing someone else's texts on a pile of tyres and I've been the one going quiet for months, and both of them are in here without excuse. That last line is going to come out of my mouth someday and I'll know exactly whose it was. 😉
That what so true and honest.
Thank you for sharing! 🖤
Thank you so much! 🤍
As a Crone-aged woman who has spent decades unlearning the roles others wrote for me, this stopped me in my tracks.
In my community we talk a lot about the witch wound — the deep, ancestral scar that comes from generations of women being punished simply for knowing themselves, trusting themselves, and refusing to make themselves smaller for someone else’s comfort. The word you wrote about is just its most modern expression.
What moves me most is that you’ve understood this at an age that took many of us so much longer to reach. You’re not just writing for yourself — you’re handing younger women a map that some of us had to draw in the dark.
‘I’d rather be the villain in someone else’s story than disappear from my own.’ That line is going to stay with me.
Thank you for writing this. It matters more than you know. 🌼🌙🔥🐚
I truly cannot express how much every word you shared with me, or more accurately, gifted me, means to me. It is such an honour to know that my words left an impression I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
Thank you for taking the time to tell me all of that. Thank you for reading my words with such presence and for stepping into my story so thoughtfully. It means more than I can say.
I know I’ll be coming back to this comment from time to time.🤍
What a gift to receive this. Your words moved something in me too — that's exactly why I stopped to write what I did. May you keep trusting your own voice, and keep telling your story exactly as only you can. Sending you light. 🌙
I felt exactly the same after reading your comment. I’m very grateful that you stopped by to leave a comment. May your presence forever leave blessings in its wake.🤍
"they were naming the shape of their own hurt."
that's the reframe the whole essay builds toward and it earns it. the word was never describing you — it was describing the moment you stepped outside the role they'd written for you. every story demands a villain and you finally stopped auditioning for it.
"i'd rather be the villain in someone else's story than disappear from my own." yes. that's the line.
It means the world to know that my story earned its ending. And truly it means the universe to know it landed as powerfully. Thank you so much for engaging so thoughtfully, as ever. 🤍
IMI what I admired most is that this essay refuses to let a single word remain a single word. "Bitch" begins as an insult, but by the end you've turned it into a lens through which to examine projection, identity, people-pleasing, and the danger of letting other people narrate your life.
What makes the piece compelling is that you never write from a place of self-exoneration. You admit to your own mistakes without trying to soften them, yet you also refuse to let those moments become permanent definitions. That distinction is both psychologically honest and surprisingly rare. It gives the essay its credibility.
I also loved the line, "I simply stopped treating their judgements as definitions." It feels like the quiet turning point of the entire piece. The transformation isn't that the world becomes kinder; it's that its verdicts lose their authority.
And then that closing... "Every story demands a villain. I'd rather be the villain in someone else's story than disappear from my own." It's one of those endings that doesn't merely conclude an essay—it reframes everything that came before it.
I'm happily subscribing because I enjoy writers who are willing to interrogate themselves with the same honesty they bring to everyone else. This felt less like a defence of your character than a meditation on how identity is so often negotiated between who we are and who others need us to be.
I’ve read your comment several times now, and I truly cannot express how grateful I am for every word you gifted me here. The part that stayed with me most was when you said I never tried to justify myself. That is exactly what I hoped this piece would do. I’ve always wanted my writing to be honest before anything else, so knowing that came through means more than I can say.
It also means so much that the line about no longer treating other people’s labels as definitions resonated with you. It was the heart of the essay, and knowing it landed exactly as I intended is incredibly moving.
Thank you for reading my words with such care and generosity. It is a genuine joy to have you in this community. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I know I’ll find myself coming back to this comment from time to time.
Imi, I am so glad you are free of what other people think you are or how they describe you or need you to be. You have come quite a long way! Congratulations! I would never call you a bitch!
Dear Jacqueline, thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being so sweet and thoughtful. You’re such a joy to interact with and a true blessing to share this journey with. Your kindness and generosity never go unnoticed, and I’m so grateful to have you here. ❤️
I enjoyed the thoughts in this piece. It has given me much to ponder on. Thank you
Thank you so much for engaging so thoughtfully. It means a lot to know.
Imi, the essay is honest in a way most confessions only pretend to be, because you include the cheating without asking us to acquit you. That is rare.
But I want to push on your question, because I think the answer is even simpler and older than projection.
Notice who calls you the word, and when. A jealous friend at thirteen. A wounded boyfriend. A man whose love you declined. Three different wounds, one identical word.
That should tell you the word carries no information about you at all. It is not a description that fits badly; it is not a description.
It is a verdict pronounced at the exact moment a woman's will becomes inconvenient. You said it yourself, and it is the truest line in the piece: it names the moment you stepped outside the role they had written.
What makes a woman a bitch in a man's eyes? Nothing of this does. The word exists because there had to be a punishment for the woman who says no, who leaves, who does not soften the blow, who declines to manage a man's feelings about her own decisions.
A seventh-grader trading texts with a boy she barely knows has not yet done anything a grown word should attach to. She was practicing wanting things. The word arrived early to teach her that wanting things has a cost.
And here is the step further: the man who filled your inbox with rage did not misunderstand you. He understood perfectly that you were not his, and that word was his revenge for the understanding. Do not grant it even the dignity of a misunderstanding....
You closed by saying you'd rather be the villain in someone else's story than disappear from your own.
I would only add: you were never the villain in theirs either. You were the plot twist they didn't approve.
Sara I cannot say how much grateful I am to you and to your words for such a profound reflection. I got the chills several times as I read your words. I wanted to quote you so many times… You are right about everything you said. I’m honoured to be read like this. And I fell in love with your last sentence. “you were never the villain in theirs either. You were the plot twist they didn't approve,” that sentence will stay with me long after I closed the screen. ❤️
I mean each and every word I told you. You know me for long enough to know I never speak in vain.:)
And I’m grateful for you everyday ❤️
imi, you do something difficult here: you refuse to let accountability become self-erasure. You name the betrayal and secrecy without softening them, then trace how the same word later became a weapon whenever you stepped outside a role someone else had written for you. That movement gives the title its moral complexity: one insult can carry the pain of harm in one scene and the policing of autonomy in another. Grateful for the courage and precision with which you allowed remorse, projection, and self-possession to remain in the same story.
Thank you so much, Kevin. The distinction you drew between accountability and self-erasure stayed with me because that was one of the hardest tensions in the piece to hold. I wanted to name the harm I caused without allowing that harm to become the only possible definition of who I am.
What you said about the same word carrying both the pain of betrayal and the policing of autonomy captures the movement of the essay so precisely. I think that is what I was trying to understand while writing it: how a word can begin as a response to something real, then later be used to keep someone trapped inside a role they have already outgrown.
I’m deeply grateful for the care with which you read this, and for the generosity of your interpretation. Your comment made me feel genuinely seen.
imi, I receive your words with deep gratitude. The essay allows the person who caused harm and the person capable of change to occupy the same moral record, without asking either one to disappear. Accountability becomes credible when it can name what happened, require ownership, and still allow changed behavior to count as evidence.
A word becomes dangerous when it keeps its original charge after the person has grown beyond the role it once enforced; language stops describing conduct and begins governing identity. Your essay resists that captivity by making room for remorse, revision, and self-authorship to coexist. Thank you for trusting me with the tension you were carrying and for telling me that my reading helped you feel genuinely seen.
Funny how the same word can mean two completely different things. To one person, it means “You hurt me.” To another, it means “You stopped obeying the script I wrote for you. That’s where freedom quietly begins.
Great read Imi, 🙏🏾🔥
Thank you so much, my friend. I’m very glad it spoke to you. It is, indeed, funny. And I love how you put it, “that’s where freedom quietly begins.”
I wholeheartedly appreciate you, engaging so thoughtfully.
You story and writing are truly inspiring Imi. Keep walking through…💯🔥
Thank you so much friend. Those words are genuinely the best gifts I can ask from writing. It means a lot to me.
It’s so telling how we’re trained to perform for others. And it’s often when everything falls apart that we see that who’s left is us without the need to be labeled by anyone,including ourselves. Being at peace with who we truly are is no small thing. Loved going on this journey with you.
Aw I loved hearing that! Thank you so much for this thoughtful reflection. It means a lot to know you enjoyed my story.