The word “you” shows up quickly in conversation.

Usually right after something happens.

You said this.

You did that.

You should have done something different.

It sounds like my observation.

It’s my interpretation.

My Story of You begins the moment I assign meaning

to someone else’s action.

Your actions.

Something happens.

My mind fills in the rest.

Intent.

Motivation.

Character.

The story forms fast.

Fast enough that it feels like truth.

Here’s the strange part.

Everything is backwards.

The story of you rarely reveals who you are.

It always reveals how I see the world.

My expectations.

My assumptions.

My emotional reactions.

You becomes my mirror.

The more certain I am about someone else’s intentions,

the more likely I’m revealing something about my own.

The Story of You isn’t wrong.

It’s incomplete.

Every time I say “you,”

I’m also quietly describing myself.

Every time I say “you,”

I’m revealing something about me.