The Big Flush: Choice Is Not a Group Project

⚠️ APPARENTLY CHOICE IS NOT A GROUP PROJECT

I got the carbs.

And the emotional support cheese.

Don’t judge me. We’re about to discuss rejection, and I refuse to do that while hungry. I have learned something during this spiritual excavation.

Hekate is waiting with the flashlight.

The Universe is being suspiciously quiet again.

I sit down.

“Fine. Let’s do this.”

Because there it is, still caught somewhere in the spiritual plumbing:

What happens when I choose someone… and they don’t choose me back?

Well.

It hurts.

There. Mystery solved. Wrap it up, Hekate. We’re done here.

She doesn’t move.

Of course she doesn’t.

Apparently we’re expected to examine the shit instead of just identifying it, swearing at it, and flushing twice.

Rude.

I Don’t Like This Particular Feature

Here’s the thing about finally realizing I get a vote.

So does everybody else.

Oh.

I don’t like that nearly as much.

I was very excited about this whole I own the table revelation when I was moving the chairs.

Then the Universe casually reminded me that everyone else owns a table too.

And sometimes?

I’m not on their seating chart.

Well, that’s bullshit.

I’d like to speak to management.

Unfortunately, management appears to be standing at a crossroads holding a torch and refusing to entertain my complaint.

Fine.

Because choice works both ways.

I can decide somebody matters deeply to me, and they can decide I’m someone they like occasionally. Which is humbling in that “oh cool, I’m a side quest” kind of way.

I can consider someone one of my closest friends while I’m apparently filed under pleasant acquaintance who sends funny memes at 2 a.m. and is not to be trusted with emotional depth.

I can make room for somebody who doesn’t make the same room for me. I can even decorate it nicely. I can put snacks out. I can be emotionally hospitable like it’s my damn job.

Nobody has necessarily lied.

Nobody has necessarily betrayed anybody.

Nobody needs to be dragged into Friendship Court. (Although I do enjoy the idea of a tiny bench, a gavel, and me dramatically saying “Exhibit A: the group chat response time.”)

Sometimes the feelings simply aren’t equal.

And damn… yeah.

That can sting.

But What Does That Say About Me?

Ah.

There it is.

The old question hiding behind the new one.

If they don’t choose me, what does that mean about me?

Younger me had answers.

Obviously I wasn’t interesting enough. Fun enough. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Important enough. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I should try harder. Maybe I should be less. Or more.

Basically, my brain would throw every version of Rae against the wall and see which one might earn a different outcome.

Exhausting.

Almost-56-year-old me has a different answer now:

Oh honey… no.

Maybe it doesn’t say anything about me.

I know.

I don’t particularly enjoy that answer either because it gives me absolutely nothing to fix.

And I am very good at fixing shit.

Give me a problem and I will research it, reorganize it, troubleshoot it, make a list, open seventeen tabs, and possibly build a spreadsheet nobody asked for but will absolutely respect once they see it.

But another person’s feelings?

Yeah… no.

No troubleshooting guide.

No reset button.

No “try turning it off and on again” for the human heart.

No secret combination of personality settings that makes someone love me more.

And honestly? That’s the part that used to really piss me off.

Because I can fix a leaky faucet, a broken routine, a chaotic schedule, a bad mood, a burnt dinner, a life plan—give me a minute and a strong cup of coffee and I’m on it.

But this?

This doesn’t come with instructions.

No manual.

No customer support chat.

Just vibes, timing, chemistry, and whatever the hell else the Universe forgot to document.

Frankly, this system has terrible technical support.

Sometimes There Isn’t a Villain

This seems to be a recurring theme lately, and apparently I needed the reminder.

Someone not choosing me doesn’t automatically make them an asshole.

Sometimes people just don’t feel what we feel.

That’s it. No hidden villain monologue. No dramatic reveal. No secret Netflix twist where they were evil the whole time and I get a redemption arc.

Just… mismatch.

Maybe they have different needs. Different priorities. Different ways of connecting. Maybe the relationship means something entirely different to them than it does to me.

And yeah—newsflash—that can hurt like hell without making either person wrong.

Which is deeply annoying, because anger is so much easier.

If they’re terrible, I can be pissed.

If they betrayed me, I can slam the door.

If they deliberately hurt me, I know exactly where to put the feeling—right in the “never speaking to you again” file, alphabetized and color-coded.

But what do you do with:

I care about you. You just don’t care about me in quite the same way.

Well.

That’s considerably less satisfying.

There’s no righteous fire. No clean exit line. No dramatic soundtrack swell.

Not even anything good to throw.

I Can Be Hurt Without Making It a Verdict

This might be the part Hekate wanted me to see.

Rejection hurts.

Not being chosen hurts.

Finding out a friendship mattered more to me than it did to the other person hurts.

Realizing somebody has a seat at the front of my table while I’m apparently stuck at the kids’ table near the kitchen, next to the folding chairs and the bathroom hallway traffic? Yeah. That one stings a little extra.

That fucking hurts.

I’m allowed to say that.

I don’t need to immediately turn it into some enlightened lesson about gratitude and personal growth while tiny spiritual birds sing around my head.

Sometimes the appropriate response is:

Ouch.

Maybe followed by:

Well, fuck.

Then maybe cheese. Because obviously.

Healing around here is not a spa day with soft music and cucumber water. It’s more like emotional triage in sweatpants, aggressively snacking while pretending I’m totally fine and not emotionally negotiating with my own nervous system like it owes me money.

There is no incense. There is no gentle journaling aesthetic. There is just me, a snack, and the occasional existential side-eye at the ceiling like it’s going to explain itself.

But hurt isn’t the same thing as a verdict.

Someone else’s choice doesn’t get to become evidence that I am unlovable, unwanted, or somehow fundamentally too much.

It only tells me something about that relationship.

That’s information.

Sometimes painful information.

But still information.

And information lets me decide what I want to do next.

I Don’t Have to Keep Auditioning

This is where things really change.

Old me might have tried harder.

If someone pulled away, I moved closer. If something felt off, I went digging for the problem like it owed me money. If I sensed distance, I treated it like an emergency situation requiring immediate emotional CPR.

Because distance felt dangerous.

Distance meant maybe I was losing my place.

And losing my place felt a whole lot like being unchosen all over again.

And that? That used to send me straight into overdrive.

But if somebody doesn’t choose me?

I don’t have to audition for the role.

I don’t have to convince them, charm them, fix myself into a more “acceptable model,” or become more useful, more available, more entertaining, more forgiving, or more anything.

I can let their choice be their choice.

And then I can make mine.

Which is the part nobody really warns you about when you grow up thinking love is something you earn through effort and emotional gymnastics.

Maybe I stay, knowing the relationship is different from what I once believed.

Maybe I adjust my expectations instead of my entire personality.

Maybe I step back a little and stop leaning so hard into something that isn’t leaning back.

Maybe I let it fade without turning it into a courtroom drama.

Maybe I grieve it—because yeah, even “not quite mutual” can still hurt like hell.

Maybe, in some cases, I love them anyway—just from a different chair, with better boundaries and less self-abandonment.

There isn’t one answer.

Which is both freeing and mildly infuriating, because I was really hoping enlightenment came with a user manual and color-coded tabs.

Apparently not.

And No, I Am Not Becoming a Hermit

This is where I could very easily swing too far in the opposite direction.

Fine! Nobody gets in!

Board up the windows. Lock the doors. Release the hounds. I’ll be in the woods communicating exclusively with crows and delivery drivers.

Tempting.

But no.

Because if I protect myself by never choosing anyone, yeah, I technically solve the rejection problem.

I also solve the connection problem.

Rather aggressively.

And I don’t actually want that.

I don’t want a heart so armored nobody can reach it. That’s not protection—that’s emotional solitary confinement with better lighting.

I want a heart with a fucking screen door.

There.

That’s better.

You can come in.

But we’re not letting every mosquito, raccoon, and wandering emotional salesman stroll through like they own the place and start rearranging the furniture.

Boundaries exist. Apparently I do too.

See?

Growth.

With ventilation.

Maybe This Is What Choosing Myself Actually Looks Like

Not never getting hurt.

Not never getting rejected.

Not turning into some emotionally bulletproof fortress where I don’t need anybody and nobody can reach me.

Because let’s be honest—that’s not strength, that’s just loneliness with better branding.

Maybe choosing myself means that when someone else doesn’t choose me, I don’t go chasing after them like I forgot where I left my dignity.

Oh.

There it is.

I stop.

Hekate doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

She’s just standing there like, “Yes, finally. You caught up.”

Because that sentence lands differently in the body. Like it bypasses the brain entirely and goes straight to the part of me that’s been over-functioning since the Clinton administration.

When someone doesn’t choose me…

I don’t have to stop choosing myself.

I don’t have to turn it into a courtroom drama where I’m both defendant and prosecutor.

I don’t have to pick myself apart like I’m trying to find the hidden factory defect.

I don’t have to rewrite my personality like I’m updating software I never agreed to install.

I don’t have to shrink my heart down to a “more acceptable size” like I’m trying to fit it into airline carry-on regulations.

And I don’t have to decide I was stupid for caring.

Caring was never the problem.

Caring was the point.

I just forgot I wasn’t supposed to use it as evidence against myself.

And I don’t have to regret choosing them.

Maybe they were worth choosing.

Maybe the connection was real on my side—and that still counts, even if it didn’t get mirrored back.

Maybe the friendship mattered.

Maybe it still does, in its own weird, asymmetrical way.

Maybe I meant every bit of it.

And here’s the kicker:

That isn’t embarrassing.

That’s just… human.

Annoyingly so.

Their answer doesn’t get to rewrite the sincerity of mine.

It doesn’t get to reach back in time and retroactively make me foolish for feeling something real.

It just… is what it is.

And I hate how simple that is.

Fuck.

Okay.

I think I understand this one.

Hekate finally shifts the flashlight slightly, like she’s saying, “Good. Now don’t make it weird again.”

Are We Flushing It?

I look at Hekate.

She looks at the drain.

I look at the drain again, like it’s going to confess something if I stare hard enough.

For once, I don’t feel like there’s some massive emotional hairball down there that requires industrial-grade spiritual plumbing and a hazmat suit.

Maybe this isn’t something I need to flush.

Maybe rejection isn’t the clog.

Maybe the clog was what I kept gluing onto it.

They didn’t choose me, therefore something must be wrong with me.

Yeah.

That one can absolutely get evicted.

No notice. No appeal. Pack your little emotional suitcase and get out.

I don’t need it anymore.

So I grab that belief like it’s a sticky note I’ve been ignoring for ten years, crumple it up, and drop it into the spiritual toilet with a little more satisfaction than I probably should admit out loud.

Hekate gives me a look.

“What?”

I shrug. “What? I’m being efficient.”

Apparently we’re judging flushing technique now. Great. Even the gods have opinions about plumbing etiquette.

I reach for the handle.

FLUSH.

Gone.

No dramatic gurgle. No ominous bubbling like something is reconsidering its life choices.

Nothing comes back up to haunt me.

I stare at the drain.

Hekate stares at the drain.

The Universe stays suspiciously quiet, like it’s pretending it didn’t just witness that.