being misunderstood is hot ❤️‍🔥

because understanding...doesn't equal appreciation

I used to hate being misunderstood.

I hated meeting someone new and they only perceived a fraction of what I was capable of. Was I not being authentic to myself? How dare anyone underestimate my rage, my power…my potential.

The first person to ever misunderstand me was my father. He’d call me selfish for expressing my needs, lazy for not waking up at 7am on a Saturday, and dramatic because I had period cramps. I surrendered to being misunderstood to not ruffle feathers, but it only kindled the sacred flame inside me.

alexa demie for “fairy tales” shot by petra collins

The older I got, the angrier I got.

It didn’t matter if I didn’t know myself yet, I still wanted people to get me. I wanted people to know who I was without having to offer up my diary. I found myself reacting to everyone’s assumptions instead of informing them of my truth.

how do you not see me?

It didn’t help that I was questioning my identity. I mean, do I even like my name? my gender? the path laid before me? I wanted to burn everything, including my uncertainty, to the ground.

If people were going to continue to misunderstand me, maybe sharing everything I thought was the answer. I’d spend hours at the bar talking down cishet men from their ignorance. I’d angrily correct someone for daring to question my name. If no one was going to try to understand me, I was going to make them hear me. I’d shut my mouth for no one. I’d tell you what I didn’t like more than I’d tell you my desires.

I took up space. I screamed. I cried out loud. and yet…I was still misunderstood.

Surrender is the scariest decision to make sometimes. It can signal “giving up” to a survivor. However, something clicked in my frontal lobe, the more I pushed against the world. I couldn’t force anyone to understand me, more than I could explain it myself. By showing up fully, I could naturally attract those who are interested in me and repel those who’ve already made their conclusions. Anything in between, isn’t my weight to carry. If people were committed to misunderstanding me, why would I expend my energy in defense? Even if I changed someone’s mind, would it matter in the end?

I’ve defended myself until my voice cracked and still bore the weight of prosecution. I still had to nurse my own wounds and build myself back together again. I realized that understanding doesn’t equal appreciation, and maybe that’s what I had been searching for this entire time.

It took me 30 years to come to the conclusion that being misunderstood is hot. I dazzled when people thought I was mysterious. The way they parted the sidewalk when I stormed through in Demonias, the way I placed gender norms over my lap and spanked its expectations. People don’t have to know me, to recognize my essence. I could eroticize the liminal space of the unknown. I could sink into the mystery and become magnetic. I could keep things to myself and protect the sacred. I could pick and choose who I allow into my space and tailor my experiences. People don’t have to know me to understand me and they don’t have to understand me to know my heart.

Because no matter how long I try to sit someone down and explain why I am the way I am, some people just won’t get it. Some won’t even desire to.

And maybe that’s okay too.