The Quiet Violence of ‘You Seem Different Now'

You didn’t change. You just stopped pretending—and that made people uncomfortable.

“You seem different now.”

Said with a head tilt. A soft smile. A loaded pause. It’s meant to sound like an observation. But underneath? It’s a judgment wrapped in a compliment. A statement with no question mark. A gentle gut punch.

Because here’s what they really mean:

You don’t act the way I remember.
You’re not as agreeable as you used to be.
I can’t recognize you now that you’re not catering to me.
You stopped playing the role I liked you in. And I don’t know what to do with this version.

This Is What Happens When You Stop Apologizing for Existing

Before I came out, I was palatable. I was charming. Funny. Pleasant. Safe. I knew how to soften my edges to make others comfortable. I knew how to talk without saying much. I knew how to play the game.

And then I stopped. I didn’t get louder—I just got honest. I didn’t become someone else—I just stopped becoming everyone else’s version of me.

And that’s when the comments started.

“You seem different.”
“You’ve changed.”
“I just miss the old you.”

The old me? She was exhausted. She was in pain. She was in costume.

So no—she’s not coming back. Not because I hate her. But because I love myself now enough not to resurrect her for your comfort.

The Cruelty of “Concern”

What makes it so insidious is that it often comes from people who claim to love you.

They don’t scream. They don’t storm out. They just slowly back away… with a smile. With concern. With questions about whether this “new you” is just a phase or a midlife crisis or a trauma response. They don’t call it rejection. But you feel it in your body.

They stop reaching out. They avoid hard conversations. They choose nostalgia over connection. Because staying close to the real you would require them to confront what they didn’t want to know about you in the first place.

But Here's What No One Tells You

People don’t leave because you became someone new. They leave because you finally stopped betraying yourself.

You became someone they couldn’t manage anymore. You became someone with boundaries. With desires. With truth. You stopped being who they wanted you to be—and they couldn’t adjust. They missed the version of you that smiled through discomfort and held space for their needs at the expense of your own.

And when you stop doing that? They call it “different.” But what they mean is: unavailable for my expectations.

I Know This Hurts

Trust me, I know.

I’ve lost people I never thought I would. People who clapped when I stepped into leadership but walked away when I stepped into authenticity. People who cried at my wedding but disappeared once I married a woman. People who told me to “be myself” but mourned it the moment I did.

That loss doesn’t always come with fireworks. Sometimes it’s just slow silence. A message unopened. A birthday forgotten. An absence that grows louder over time.

But Here’s the Part That Matters

You’re not too much. You’re just too honest for the version of you they wanted.

They wanted you small. Soft. Convenient.

But you, now?

You’re not someone they can mold. You’re someone they have to meet. As you are.
On your terms. With no mask, no filter, no pretending.

And that, my friend, is power.