You can’t heal in someone else’s storm. Especially when they’re still calling it weather.

Clarity Over Chaos: Why Walking Away Is an Act of Self-Respect

What’s poppin’ y’all! I’ve got to figure out a consistency to continue to blog, read and just get all my ducks in a row. Things have been great and to that reason, I know we’ve talked about in our last few posts our latest read and so here’s my overall dissection in connection to the latest read—

Sometimes love—or what we think is love—feels like trying to catch the train when it’s already pulling away. You run, you hope, you convince yourself it’ll stop, even when the signs been flashing “OUT OF SERVICE” since the jump.

That’s how dating can feel.

And not just for me, but for a lot of us. Especially when we try to “hold space” for people who haven’t made space for themselves. It’s heavy. It’s confusing. It’s emotionally expensive.

Sidik Fofana's "Stories from the Tenants Downstairs" isn’t marketed as a dating book. It’s raw fiction rooted in survival and NYC grit. But if you read between the lines—or hell, just read the lines—you see it: trauma doesn’t just live in people, it spills. And often, it spills on the people closest. People who didn’t ask for the flood.

Take Quanneisha in “The Young Entrepreneurs of Miss Bristol’s Front Porch” or Dary in “Lite Feet.” These characters are more than products of their environment—they're doing the dance between survival and self-sabotage. Their stories remind us that when someone hasn't tended to their wounds, those wounds start looking for company. And if you don’t set boundaries, you become the bandage. Or worse—the collateral.

We’ve all tried to love someone through their chaos. Told ourselves “they just need time,” or “they didn’t mean it that way.” But here's the honest, soul-grounding truth:

Confusion is not care. Mixed signals are not mystery. And silence? It’s loud as hell.

In Fofana’s world, people are struggling to stay afloat. That’s real. But if there's one universal takeaway from his stories, it’s that proximity to pain doesn’t justify becoming someone’s emotional crash pad. You’re not a soft place to land for somebody who keeps choosing the jump.

When we stay where clarity doesn’t exist, we teach our nervous system to expect chaos. We trade our peace for potential. And that’s not noble—that’s self-neglect.

Walking away isn’t bitterness. It’s clarity. It’s choosing yourself before someone else’s confusion starts to redefine your worth. Because while healing is a journey, hurting people who care for you along the way isn’t part of the route. That’s a detour.

I think about how I’ve experienced this, whether it’s in my friendships, dating, my parent-child dynamics or even in the professional space. Choosing yourself is not an easily achievable task for a myriad (YKWYA 🙈) of reasons. So if you're in a “situationship,” a “maybe,” a “not right now,” or a “I’m just going through a lot,” let this be the sign: You’re not responsible for translating someone else's trauma into tenderness. You’re allowed to choose consistency. You’re allowed to choose clarity. Hell, you’re allowed to walk away mid-sentence if the story keeps rewriting your peace.

Let them go find their light.You go protect yours.

Until next time,

Keep it real. Keep it lit, bro.