I Used to Write Things Down I Didn’t Understand

When I was younger, I had a habit.

Any time something confused me—something someone said, some math that didn’t make sense — I’d write it down. I wasn’t trying to journal. I just didn’t want to forget what confused me, because I assumed one day I’d come back to it with enough wisdom to finally understand and close the loop.

Some entries were simple:

Why did he lie when telling the truth wouldn’t have hurt him?

What does anthrophmorphisize mean?

Why did she act like that when she clearly wanted the opposite?

How large do octopuses get?

Why do people destroy things they say they care about?

I had pages of these notes short. A quiet collection of questions that bothered me more than they should have. Questions that made me feel like maybe I was the one who didn’t get it.

And then I got older.

I started seeing patterns. Started understanding trauma. Started recognizing insecurity when it disguised itself as arrogance. I saw people repeat what they saw growing up. I saw how survival often replaces clarity. How control becomes a stand-in for love. And how many people never learn to tell the difference.

Eventually, I stopped writing things down.

Not because I figured it all out. But because I realized… there wasn’t much to figure out.

Most bad behavior isn’t a mystery—it’s a reflection. Of someone’s environment. Their history. Their limitations. Their wounds. Their worldview.

What used to confuse me now just makes me sad. Or, if I’m honest, makes me careful. Careful about who I let in. Who I give energy to. Who I expect answers from.

I no longer need to correct people when they’re wrong. I no longer need explanations from people acting out their own damage.

There’s a freedom in no longer needing to understand everything.

There’s a freedom in knowing which questions are worth asking.

Both freedoms come from taking the time to learn.