The Habit of Explaining

There comes a point when explaining yourself starts to feel heavy.

Not because you’ve grown distant from others, but because you’ve grown closer to yourself.

You begin to notice how often you soften your choices before sharing them.
How you add context.
How you offer reasons before anyone asks.

You hear it in your own voice.

The way a simple decision turns into a paragraph.
The way a preference becomes a presentation.

You’re not just saying what you want.
You’re preparing the room to receive it.

And for many women, this has been normal for so long that it barely registers.

We learn early that explanation keeps the peace.

It makes us easier to understand.
Easier to accept.
Easier to live with.

We’re taught—subtly and repeatedly—that clarity must be accompanied by care for how it lands.

That wanting something isn’t enough.
It must also be reasonable.
Justifiable.
Palatable.

So we explain.

We explain our timing.
Our boundaries.
Our ambitions.
Our exhaustion.
Our joy.

We explain why we’re changing.
Why we’re choosing differently.
Why something that once worked no longer does.

And for a long time, this serves us.

Especially when we’re younger.
Especially when we’re trying to belong.
Especially when safety, approval, or stability depends on being agreeable.

Explanation becomes a form of protection.

If I can help you understand me, maybe I won’t disappoint you.
If I can make this make sense, maybe I won’t be judged.
If I can soften the edges, maybe I won’t be seen as difficult.

But over time, something shifts.

Life accumulates.

Experience deepens.

You begin to know yourself not from theory, but from living.

From what drains you.
From what steadies you.
From what brings you back to yourself when everything else pulls you outward.

And still—the explaining continues.

Even when your knowing is solid.
Even when your decision has already settled in your body.

You begin to feel the cost of that disconnect.

You feel it when you rehearse conversations that don’t need rehearsing.
When your chest tightens mid-sentence.
When your words speed up as if you’re trying to outrun judgment.

You feel how much energy leaks out through justification.

Not because the choice is wrong, but because you’re trying to carry other people’s comfort alongside your own truth.

And here is where many women arrive, often quietly, often without ceremony.

At a realization that feels both liberating and unsettling:

I don’t actually need to explain this.

Not because you’re being rash.
Not because you haven’t thought it through.
Not because you’re acting impulsively.

But because you have lived enough to trust your discernment.

Men are rarely taught to translate their desires in this way.

They decide.
They act.
They adjust.

Women, meanwhile, are often taught to make their lives legible before they are allowed to be lived.

To narrate their choices.
To justify their instincts.
To apologize for taking up space.

February invites you to question that inheritance.

Not with anger.
Not with defiance.

But with maturity.

With the steady understanding that honoring your truth does not require a defense.

You are allowed to choose what makes sense for you—even if it doesn’t make sense to everyone else.

You are allowed to want what fits your life now, not the life you used to live or the one others expect you to maintain.

You are allowed to keep your life real.

Because a life that is constantly explained eventually stops being fully lived.

It becomes managed.
Curated.
Edited for approval.

And women deserve more than that. You deserve a life that reflects your truth without constant justification.

A life shaped by discernment, yes—but not diminished by doubt.

A life that honors the fullest expression of who you are becoming.

This is not about withdrawing from others.

It’s about returning to yourself.

About trusting that your inner knowing does not need permission to exist.

Learning when not to explain is not avoidance.

It’s sovereignty.

It’s the moment your life becomes yours again—not in theory, but in practice.

That is trust taking root.

A gentle practice for the week

Notice when you feel the impulse to add more words than necessary.

When a simple truth begins to expand into explanation.

Pause.

Ask yourself quietly: Is clarity needed here—or am I seeking permission or agreement?

Let your answer guide you.

Reflections for the week

• Where do I explain myself out of habit rather than necessity?

• What am I afraid might happen if I don’t justify my choices?

• What would it feel like to let my life be lived, not defended?

Until next Tuesday,
Wendy

P.S. You are not required to make your life understandable to everyone in order for it to be true.