At the beginning of summer, I found myself in a situation that, at least on the surface, was remarkably simple: I had sent someone a clear and straightforward email asking a practical question about the time of a meeting, and the email remained unanswered. I was upset, and I believe I had good reasons to be upset. Ignoring a direct question is discourteous under most circumstances, but particularly so when the question comes from someone who is freely offering their time, expertise, and effort. There is nothing irrational about noticing such a fact or about feeling frustration in response to it.
The problem, however, was not the feeling itself. The problem was what happened afterward.
Instead of limiting myself to what I actually knew, I began constructing a story around the facts. The fact was that the person had not replied. The story was that my time, my energy, and my experience were not valued. Yet those are not the same thing. One was observable reality; the other was an explanation I had created to make sense of that reality. The difficulty is that explanations often feel like facts, especially when they emerge from genuine hurt. They arrive in our minds fully formed, carrying the emotional weight of certainty, while resting on a foundation that is often far less stable than we imagine.
Looking back now, with the benefit of distance, I can see the distinction much more clearly. The unanswered email was real and impolite. My interpretation was a story. Perhaps the person was careless. Perhaps they were overwhelmed. Perhaps they forgot. Perhaps they deliberately chose not to answer. The truth is that I did not know. What I possessed was a fact followed by a series of assumptions, and in the heat of disappointment, I confused the two.
What fascinates me is how difficult this distinction becomes precisely when emotions are justified. Most people recognize the danger of overreacting when they are unreasonable; the greater challenge arises when one actually has good reasons to feel upset. How does one remain intellectually disciplined in those moments? How does one preserve fidelity to the facts when the emotions themselves seem to point so convincingly toward a particular conclusion? There is a temptation to believe that because a feeling is legitimate, the story attached to it must also be true. Yet these are separate questions. One can be entirely justified in feeling hurt while being completely mistaken about the reasons behind that hurt.
I do not know why other people create stories around their disappointments, but I increasingly understand why I create mine. They are not born from malice or from a desire to dramatize reality. They are protective mechanisms. They are my mind's attempt to shield me from uncertainty, to transform ambiguity into something definite and therefore manageable. If I convince myself that someone does not value my time, then I no longer have to wait, wonder, or hope. The ambiguity disappears. The case seems closed. There is a certain psychological comfort in arriving at a conclusion, even a painful one.
At its core, I think this impulse comes from a desire to avoid future suffering. I do not enjoy disappointment, and I have little interest in repeatedly exposing myself to situations that are likely to produce it. As a result, my instinct is often to distance myself from people who do not reply to messages, who appear indifferent, or who consistently fail to take my contributions seriously. In many situations, that instinct may even be wise. Boundaries are not inherently irrational.
Yet there remains a crucial difference between establishing boundaries on the basis of facts and establishing them on the basis of stories. Facts can guide our decisions without requiring us to invent motives, intentions, or hidden meanings.
Now, I am not aiming to become a less sensitive or less emotional person. If anything, I would like to remain deeply capable of feeling everything that comes. What I hope to cultivate instead is the ability to hold uncertainty a little longer, to resist the comfort of premature conclusions, and to stay anchored in what I actually know. Because while facts do not always protect us from pain, stories often create a second suffering on top of the first: the suffering of believing something we cannot truly know.
