"Some people will misunderstand you simply because they can't stand the way your light exposes what they hide in the dark."
There's this kind of hurt that doesn't come from enemies. It comes from people who used to laugh at your jokes, who knew how you took your coffee, who could finish your sentences. I mean, the people we once called friends.
And then one day, for reasons you can't quite pin down, they look at you differently. Sometimes, over something so small that you can barely believe it.
For me, it happened over lunch money. I know how that sounds; ridiculous, small, almost embarrassing to admit. But that's how these things usually start, right? Not with some dramatic falling out, but with something so insignificant that you almost miss it.
I was supposed to order food for the team, nothing complicated, just doing what I'd been asked to do. (A director had decided to treat everyone to lunch after a successful deal). We all came together and planned where to order our food based on the budget, and we had even concluded. Only for my friend to come back and say she wanted cash instead, but she already knew that we don't row like that. Just like that, out of nowhere, she snapped at me in front of everyone. Said she wanted the money, not the meal, and that it was her choice to decide what she wants.
I tried to explain, calmly, that it wasn't possible. I was instructed to get lunch, not distribute cash. Simple.
But it didn't end there.
She pushed. Called me out. Made it a whole thing. And before I knew it, the situation had escalated all the way to the COO's office.
The COO's office. Over lunch money.
I sat there, mortified, trying to explain something that shouldn't have needed explaining. The embarrassment wasn't just about being called in; it was about who had put me there. Someone I'd considered a friend. Someone I'd sat with, laughed with, shared my work frustrations with.
At some point during one of our back-and-forths, she called me proud.
Proud?....
As if doing my job made me arrogant. As if following instructions made me think I was better than her.
And that's when I felt it, it was not just about the anger or confusion, but something sharper. Something I didn't want to name at first.
It was Jealousy.
She wasn't upset about the decision itself. She was upset that I'd made it without her.
When did being friends mean I needed permission to do my job?
The realisation was in her tone, in the way she made a simple "no" feel like a personal attack. In the way she needed to make me small in front of others. She wasn't fighting for cash. She was fighting against something she saw in me that she couldn't stand.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept replaying the conversation, wondering if I'd been too harsh, too cold, too... something. Maybe leadership was changing me. Maybe I really had become difficult and proud without realising it..
The mind has a cruel way of magnifying self-doubt. It takes someone else's accusations and tries them on for size, just to see if they fit.
But somewhere between guilt and clarity, it hit me; the moment that changed everything:
I realised that sometimes, people don't always want to understand you; they want you to remain understandable to them, and they want you to always remain at least one level beneath them, no matter how better you become.
But here's the thing: when you grow, when you step into a role that requires you to make decisions, to lead, to sometimes say no, the people who knew you when you were smaller don't always celebrate that. Some of them resent it.
Not because you've done anything wrong. But because your growth reminds them of their stillness.
Your confidence feels like judgment. Your boundaries feel like rejection. And your refusal to shrink feels like pride.
And instead of looking inward, they look at you and decide you're the problem.
I stopped trying to defend myself after that. Not because I didn't care, but because I finally understood something:
People don't always want to understand you. They want you to stay manageable. Controllable. They want you to maintain the version of you that doesn't make them uncomfortable.
And when you refuse to be that anymore, they'll find a reason, any reason at all, to make you the villain. (Even something as silly as lunch money)
She called me proud. But what she really meant was: "You're not asking for my approval anymore, and I hate it."
The truth is, some people will misinterpret your growth as arrogance. Your boundaries as cold. Your peace as pride. And they'll try to tear you down to the size they're comfortable with.
That's not love. That's control.
I learned to set boundaries I didn't even know I needed:
I'll be kind, but I won't pretend to be humble to make you comfortable.
I'll listen, but I won't defend every decision I make.
I'll care, but I won't shrink so you can feel big.
And when people choose to misunderstand me, when they twist my intentions, call me names, or drag me into unnecessary drama, well, I've learned that silence can be a full conversation too.
Because explaining yourself to someone who's already decided you're the enemy is a waste of breath.
We eventually moved past it. Things cooled down. We're civil now, maybe even friendly on good days.
But something shifted permanently.
I no longer need her validation. I no longer perform our friendship. And I no longer feel guilty for taking up space.
It wasn't bitterness that changed me. It was clarity.
Some people are only equipped to understand who you were, not who you're becoming. And when your evolution threatens their ego, they'll make it about your character.
I say, Let them.
Lessons from this:
When someone calls you proud for having boundaries, that's their discomfort talking, not your truth.
When a small disagreement becomes a public spectacle, recognise it for what it is: a power play. They're trying to humiliate you back into compliance.
When you're accused of changing, own it. You have changed. You've grown. And that's not something to apologise for.
When jealousy disguises itself as moral outrage, see it clearly. Their anger isn't about what you did. It's about who you're becoming without their permission.
You don't owe anyone a smaller version of yourself.
You don't have to dim your light to make someone else comfortable in their darkness.
You don't have to defend your growth, explain your boundaries, or apologise for refusing to be diminished.
Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply this: Stop trying to be understood by people who are more interested in misunderstanding you.
They're not upset because you changed.
They're upset because they didn't, and your growth is holding up a mirror they don't want to look into.
It was never your fault. You were never too proud, too much, too different.
You were just becoming, and they weren't ready to witness it.