The Relatability Paradox

My mother has always had a knack for saying something that feels like an insult in the moment, but reveals itself as a truth you’ll end up clinging to later. One of her favourites:

“The reason they’re called relationships, darling, is because people need to be able to relate to you.”

It’s the kind of phrase that lands softly but sticks like a splinter, because I know exactly what she means, and I also know she’s right.

I don’t make it easy for people to relate to me. I don’t dress down to blend in. I don’t quieten my voice to make others comfortable. I speak in full sentences and don’t hide my education, my ambition, or the fact that I can hold my own in a political debate. I’ve been told my presence can feel like walking into a room where the air has already been set to “high standards.”

It’s not intentional. It’s not arrogance. But the truth is, I’ve always been a lot. Not in a messy, chaotic way, in a way that says I’ve thought about who I am and I refuse to apologise for it. And while my family see the other side of me, the girl who bakes cinnamon buns for the neighbours, who cries over stray dogs, who gives until she’s empty, most people never get close enough to notice.

They don’t stay long enough to notice.

And maybe that’s partly my fault. Because for years, I tried to compensate for this “intimidating” exterior by giving too much of myself too soon. I wanted to prove I was loveable. So I handed my heart to people who didn’t deserve to hold it. I let them take and take, thinking that if I poured enough kindness, loyalty, and generosity into their hands, they’d realise my worth and protect it.

They didn’t.

One man in particular, I practically gift-wrapped my soul and handed it over. He hadn’t earned it. He hadn’t even asked for it, not really. But I gave it anyway, desperate for him to see I was the kind of woman you build a life with. Instead, he tore it up and threw it at my feet.

Thankfully, I was wearing a pair of So Kate Louboutin’s when it happened, so at least the heartbreak had a touch of Parisian flair. But standing there, watching the fragments of myself scattered on the floor, I learned something life-altering:

Love is sacred. Generosity is sacred. Forgiveness is sacred.

And when you give the sacred away too quickly, the loss is always yours to bear.

So I stopped.

I stopped giving everything away for free. I stopped apologising for my standards. I stopped handing people the key to my heart in the first five minutes of knowing them. Now, I hold my kindness tighter. Not because I’ve become bitter, but because boundaries are not just wise, they’re biblical. Even Jesus didn’t entrust Himself to everyone (John 2:24).

But here’s the cruel irony: when you protect yourself, people call you cold. When you wait to see if someone is trustworthy, they call you standoffish. When you refuse to dilute yourself, they call you unapproachable.

And so the internal battle begins:

How do you protect the softness inside you without hiding it altogether?

How do you let people see your humanity without giving them the chance to trample it?

How do you be relatable without shrinking into someone you’re not?

I wish I could say I’ve mastered it. I haven’t. But here’s what I’ve learned so far.

Relatability is in the details. People don’t need you to spill your deepest trauma on the first coffee. They just need to know you also burn your toast, forget your keys, or once bought a plant and killed it in a week. These tiny truths are invitations, they whisper, “You can relax here.”

Guarded is not the same as closed. You can keep your boundaries without building a wall so high no one can see over it.

Curiosity connects more than credentials. People feel safe when they know you’re genuinely interested in them. Not performing. Not networking. Just listening.

Warmth doesn’t weaken you. The steel in your spine can still be wrapped in velvet.

The reality is, relationships, romantic or otherwise, aren’t sustained by the grand gestures, the designer shoes, or even the clever conversations. They’re built in the ordinary moments: the shared laugh over something silly, the comfortable silence on a rainy afternoon, the way you remember how someone takes their tea.

For someone like me, someone used to walking into a room with her hair smoothed, her outfit perfect, and her argument airtight, this has been a humbling thing to learn. Because while excellence is admirable, connection is often found in imperfection.

I am still the high-value, faith-rooted woman who expects loyalty, stability, and commitment. I will not lower those standards for anyone. But I’m also learning that sometimes, the most Christlike thing I can do is to take off the heels, sit cross-legged on the floor, and meet someone where they are, not because they’ve earned it yet, but because grace is meant to be startling.

And the truth is, there will always be people who meet you and think, she’s too much.

But there will also be those, the rare ones, who meet you and think, finally.

The art is in holding out for the latter.