Open Wavelength

Knowing isn’t changing. One of the strangest things about me is this: I can see my quirks as clearly as if they’re written on a map. I can name them, trace them, even predict when they’ll show up — and still not stop them. People say “once you know better, you’ll do better.” I wish it worked like that. But my wiring doesn’t flip that easily.

It shows up most in communication. I’ll have the picture in my head — the whole thing, the pattern, the conclusion, clear as day — and then I freeze when it’s time to actually speak. On the outside it probably looks stubborn, or arrogant, or like I’m refusing to engage. But inside, I’m stuck. Sometimes I’m literally in my own head screaming at myself: Say it. Say the thing. Do it. Just move. Come on, you big idiot, do the thing… And still nothing comes out. By the time the words finally line up, the moment’s already gone.

If I were code, this would be easy. Spot the bug, patch it, roll out a new version, and call it good. But people aren’t code. Awareness doesn’t equal reprogramming. If it did, my life would be an entirely different release by now. And the truth is, some of these quirks aren’t bugs at all — they’re features. The same wiring that stalls me in conversation is also what lets me see big patterns most people miss. Same system, different trade-offs.

So I’ve had to learn to work with what I’ve got instead of trying to overwrite it. I write more, because I’m more fluent in writing than speech. I try to come up with ways to let other people know what’s happening, form routines, and do what I can to help them understand instead of assuming the worst. I try to see these quirks not as glitches to iron out, but as part of the texture of my operating system.

Knowing hasn’t magically changed me. But it has given me a way to live with more honesty — and sometimes, to turn what I thought was a weakness into the thing that makes me, me.