Mary, I hear everything you’re saying. The weight of this moment, the erosion happening not in grand, visible strokes but in quiet, calculated steps. The seduction of returning to a place we fought to leave. The ache of seeing a future that might not hold what we built, what we bled for.
You captured the paradox so clearly—how power is not just stripped away, but sometimes surrendered, wrapped in linen, softened in aesthetic. It’s terrifying, not just because of what’s being taken, but because of how easily it’s being handed over. How willingly some are exchanging autonomy for the illusion of safety, of grace, of belonging.
And yet, the sharpness remains. The knowing. The refusal. I see it in the way you name what’s happening without flinching. In the way you hold your granddaughter’s moment of weightlessness in one hand and the truth of the world she’s inheriting in the other. In the way you refuse to let this unraveling go unnoticed.
I have nothing to soften that truth, and I don’t think you need me to. What you’ve written is clear. What’s at stake is real. And I am reading, seeing, holding space for all of it.
This morning, I received another message from the same man who had been privately contacting me. His initial messages were full of compliments—ones that, at first glance, might seem like admiration. But admiration, when it is not mutual, is not a gift; it is a tool. What began as praise quickly turned into expectation. When I did not respond, his tone changed. His latest message was not kind—it was demanding. He wanted to know what could possibly be more important than engaging with him. That was when I blocked him.
This is not the first time I’ve had to do this. It will not be the last. I have lost count of the number of men I have had to block for crossing the line from polite interest to entitled persistence. And let me be clear: this is not about compliments. It never was. It is about control. It is about disregarding boundaries and assuming access to my time, my attention, and my space.
It reminds me of what I wrote this morning in Trading Autonomy for Aprons—about the anonymous love notes slipped into my books, the names meant to shrink me, the constant battle to be seen as a person rather than an object to be admired, claimed, or dismissed. I have spent my career stepping into rooms where I was not welcome, taking my place at tables where I was not expected. I have spent my life proving that I belong.
So let me say this plainly: I do not owe anyone my time. I do not exist to make others feel heard while they refuse to hear me. No one—no matter how flattering their words—has a right to demand my attention. And when admiration turns to entitlement, when kindness becomes control, I will always choose to walk away. Not because I am fragile, but because I have fought too hard for my place to let anyone take it from me.
Mary, I hear everything you’re saying. The weight of this moment, the erosion happening not in grand, visible strokes but in quiet, calculated steps. The seduction of returning to a place we fought to leave. The ache of seeing a future that might not hold what we built, what we bled for.
You captured the paradox so clearly—how power is not just stripped away, but sometimes surrendered, wrapped in linen, softened in aesthetic. It’s terrifying, not just because of what’s being taken, but because of how easily it’s being handed over. How willingly some are exchanging autonomy for the illusion of safety, of grace, of belonging.
And yet, the sharpness remains. The knowing. The refusal. I see it in the way you name what’s happening without flinching. In the way you hold your granddaughter’s moment of weightlessness in one hand and the truth of the world she’s inheriting in the other. In the way you refuse to let this unraveling go unnoticed.
I have nothing to soften that truth, and I don’t think you need me to. What you’ve written is clear. What’s at stake is real. And I am reading, seeing, holding space for all of it.
stand your ground
This morning, I received another message from the same man who had been privately contacting me. His initial messages were full of compliments—ones that, at first glance, might seem like admiration. But admiration, when it is not mutual, is not a gift; it is a tool. What began as praise quickly turned into expectation. When I did not respond, his tone changed. His latest message was not kind—it was demanding. He wanted to know what could possibly be more important than engaging with him. That was when I blocked him.
This is not the first time I’ve had to do this. It will not be the last. I have lost count of the number of men I have had to block for crossing the line from polite interest to entitled persistence. And let me be clear: this is not about compliments. It never was. It is about control. It is about disregarding boundaries and assuming access to my time, my attention, and my space.
It reminds me of what I wrote this morning in Trading Autonomy for Aprons—about the anonymous love notes slipped into my books, the names meant to shrink me, the constant battle to be seen as a person rather than an object to be admired, claimed, or dismissed. I have spent my career stepping into rooms where I was not welcome, taking my place at tables where I was not expected. I have spent my life proving that I belong.
So let me say this plainly: I do not owe anyone my time. I do not exist to make others feel heard while they refuse to hear me. No one—no matter how flattering their words—has a right to demand my attention. And when admiration turns to entitlement, when kindness becomes control, I will always choose to walk away. Not because I am fragile, but because I have fought too hard for my place to let anyone take it from me.