Vachon Imagined

Have you ever known someone who, no matter how carefully you spoke, didn’t seem to be listening?

Not really listening.

They were defending their position rather than hearing yours.

Analyzing you rather than understanding you.

Waiting for their turn to speak rather than considering what was being said.

Talking over you.

You know the type.

There are some conversations not worth having, not because the subject isn’t important, but because no one is actually listening.

They’re too busy being who they already believe themselves to be.

And honestly, kudos to them.

It’s a brave thing to be yourself in a world that is constantly telling you to be anything but that.

But there is a difference between knowing who you are and being unable to question who you are.

One is confidence.

The other is self-righteousness.

Ah yes, self-righteousness.

The pearl-clutching certainty that your interpretation of reality is reality itself.

The strange conviction that being offended is somehow evidence of being correct.

The belief that if someone disagrees with you, they must be wrong.

But most people are not wrestling with you.

They’re wrestling with their idea of you.

And those are not the same thing.

An idea is not a person.

An interpretation is not reality.

A story is not life itself.

It is simply a lens through which life is being viewed.

And every lens, no matter how clear, introduces a little distortion.

Thank God for that.

Because if our interpretations were perfect, there would be no room to grow.

No room to learn.

No room to discover that we were mistaken.

No room to become something new.

There would be no hope.

But there is hope.

There is hope because life is always larger than our opinions about it.

Larger than our identities.

Larger than our assumptions.

Larger than the stories we tell about ourselves and each other.

So let them.

Let them misunderstand you.

Let them analyze you.

Let them talk over you.

Let them defend positions you no longer need to attack.

Not because they are right.

Not because you are wrong.

But because your time is valuable.

And some conversations are not bridges.

They are treadmills.

You can spend years running and never arrive anywhere.

Life, however, is always moving.

Always inviting.

Always revealing what is worth your attention and what is not.

Your time is limited.

That much is certain.

But you?

You are not.

And the moment you stop defending yourself against every interpretation, every opinion, every misunderstanding, you discover something remarkable:

Life was never asking you to become an idea.

It was asking you to be alive.