Assembling My Peace

Have you ever noticed how every time an article, post, or story focuses on a particular group, there’s always someone in the comments yelling, “BUT WHAT ABOUT ME?” or “NOT EVERYONE!” As if every single thing in existence has to include every single person or else it’s somehow offensive?

Why do people feel the need to insert themselves into things that aren’t about them?

Newsflash—not everything has to cater to everyone. Some things are meant for a specific audience, and that’s perfectly fine. A post about stay-at-home moms doesn’t need to pause and acknowledge working moms, dads, or people without kids. A story celebrating Black entrepreneurs doesn’t have to add a disclaimer about non-Black business owners. A mental health article about anxiety doesn’t have to include a footnote for people who don’t experience it.

Yet, time and time again, people act as if leaving out a group is the same as attacking them.

The ‘Not Everyone’ Syndrome

We see it all the time. Someone shares a post about struggling as a single parent, and here come the comments:

“Well, not ALL single parents struggle.”

“Two-parent households have struggles too!”

Or someone writes about women’s experiences in the workplace, and inevitably, someone chimes in with:

“Not ALL men do that.”

“What about men’s struggles?”

And then, of course, there’s race.

A post about Black mental health? “Well, mental health is important for EVERYONE.”

A discussion on racism? “Well, I’VE never owned slaves, so this doesn’t apply to me.”

A conversation about white privilege? “Not all white people have it easy!”

The pattern is always the same—whenever a conversation centers marginalized people, there’s an immediate urge from (usually) white voices to make sure they aren’t left out.

And sure, these statements might be technically true, but that’s not the point. The point is that this particular post isn’t about everyone—it’s about a specific experience, and that’s okay.

Why do some people do this? It’s human nature to want to be seen, but it’s something deeper when it comes to whiteness. Western culture, particularly in the U.S., has long centered whiteness as the “default.” White people are used to seeing themselves reflected in everything—history books, TV shows, media narratives—so when something doesn’t include them, I guess for some (see, some, calm down!) it feels unnatural. It feels like exclusion, even when it isn’t.

This is why conversations about race make a lot of white people uncomfortable. Instead of listening, many feel an urge to defend themselves, prove they’re the “exception,” or redirect the conversation toward something they can relate to. It’s a reflex that stems from privilege—the privilege of rarely having to consider what it feels like to be left out of the narrative.

The truth is, we don’t need to be the main character in every conversation. Some things just aren’t about us, and that’s perfectly fine. If you see a post that doesn’t apply to you, you should, by now, be aware that you have options:

1. Keep scrolling. Not everything requires your input.

2. Listen and learn. Maybe you’re not included because this isn’t your lived experience. That’s okay! You can still learn from it.

3. Create your own space. If you feel like a perspective is missing, write your own post about it instead of hijacking someone else’s.

At the end of the day, the world doesn’t need to constantly reassure white people that they exist. Not every article, post, or story needs a disclaimer for every possible exception. Sometimes, things are meant for a particular audience—and that’s not exclusion. That’s just reality.

And guess what? That’s okay. Why? Because not everything is about us all of the time.

I won’t be going to my Nana’s memorial luncheon. I refuse to be in a room with my sex predator cousin. Bringing my children into the same space isn’t and  never will be an option. He went away for fifteen years for CSAM, and he had a juvenile record involving rape and other sexual abuse of, I believe, three known victims. Known being the key word. We all know there is the possibility that there are more, those who haven’t come forward or can’t. So, as per usual, I’m the problem for taking issue with his existence. My children will NEVER have to ask me why I knowingly put them in the same room as a sex predator. Never. Is it true that there are many that go under the radar of the law. Absolutely. You need not preach to this choir.

Neither of my childhood abusers were ever reported. One stayed a mystery until last year, when my mother finally asked me at 43-years-old, and I answered. After my main predator was found out, no one even sat me down to talk about it. So, I wasn’t surprised it took 30+ years for someone to ask about the other. No one ever asked for details, and I didn’t offer any. We just didn’t really talk about it again. I was content to spare them. I didn’t want anyone’s pity; I didn’t want my parents to feel the weight of their choices.That would’ve been too much to live with on top of everything else. So I moved through my childhood and then took myself to my first therapist at nineteen. I did decades of work. Hard, excruciating work that continues and likely will for the rest of my life.

Fast forward to thirty, when I was shamed for refusing to speak to my cousin. People questioned why I wouldn’t correspond with him in prison. It’s true we were close once. It’s also true that in my mid-twenties my aunt allowed my niece and nephews to sleep over at her house, without ever disclosing that her son already had a lengthy juvenile record. No one knew. This obnoxious unwillingness to respect my decision went on even after, for the first time, I disclosed to my aunt some of what had happened to me. I shared more truth than I’d ever revealed. In that moment, I felt understood—but within a week, I realized that painful moment of vulnerability meant absolutely nothing.

Now I’m being told it’s “my loss” for refusing to attend the memorial luncheon for Nana. But is it? I don’t feel, even for a second, that this is my loss. Standing up against the disgusting idea that this predator should just be allowed to walk among us because “he has done his time”—that’s the furthest thing from a loss. I don’t know his victims, but my refusal is for them. And it’s for the little me who wasn’t protected, the little me who wasn’t saved by any adult. I was ultimately saved by another child, my sister, and even she doesn’t know just how much. I’ve spent over 15 years wondering if my aunt ever lies in bed at night with a shattered heart for that little girl or for those little boys. Does she ever wonder how they’re coping? Does she wonder if the children in those videos were saved? Does she lose even a moment of sleep wondering if they survived the abuse her son found pleasure in watching? It doesn’t seem so, because she thinks he got “way more than should have been necessary.” 

It’s only the victims who deserved a life sentence, I guess. 

So no, friends, it’s not my loss. I’ll pay tribute to the grandmother, who favored a sex predator over all her other grandkids, in my own way. I’m going to start by contributing to and then hosting a fundraiser for RAINN. Please consider donating.