On red flags, complicated histories, and learning that I don’t have to know what everything means right now
There is a very efficient attorney living somewhere inside my nervous system. She does not believe in lengthy trials. Give her one suspicious fact and she is already pacing before the jury. Complicated personal history? Exhibit A. A difficult chapter? Exhibit B. An unconventional life choice? Exhibit C. By the time the waiter brings the second glass of iced tea, she has prepared closing arguments. *Ladies and gentlemen, I think we all know where this is going.*
Except sometimes we don’t.
I’ve been thinking lately about how quickly we are encouraged to categorize people. Red flag. Green flag. Toxic. Healthy. Avoidant. Narcissist. Emotionally unavailable. Good person. Bad person. Some of those words are useful — sometimes recognizing a pattern is exactly what allows us to protect ourselves. I spent too many years overriding my own perceptions to romanticize open-mindedness now. If something bothers me, I want to notice. If someone’s behavior conflicts with my values, I want to see it. If words and actions repeatedly fail to match, I don’t want to explain away the discrepancy because I like the person delivering them. I’ve done enough of that.
But there is another trap hiding on the opposite side. Sometimes what looks like discernment is actually an attempt to eliminate uncertainty. If I can identify the red flag quickly enough, perhaps I can avoid being hurt. If I can figure out exactly who you are, perhaps I’ll know exactly what to do. If I can reach the correct verdict, perhaps I can feel safe. The problem is that human beings make lousy exhibits. We are complicated.
We All Arrive With a File
At this age, nobody arrives without a past. Certainly not me. If someone were handed a summary of my life without context, there are pieces of it that might make them raise an eyebrow. Maybe two. I’ve loved people I probably shouldn’t have. I’ve stayed places longer than I should have. I’ve made choices that make much more sense when you know the circumstances surrounding them. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve changed my mind. I’ve had relationships succeed and relationships fail. I’ve lived through things that changed me.
Pull any one of those facts out of context and someone could probably build quite a case. I might be somebody else’s yellow flag. Hell, I might be somebody’s red one. And they’re allowed to decide that — that’s part of their sovereignty too.
But I would hope someone interested in knowing me would distinguish between my history and my character. The past matters. Of course it does. But what someone has lived through, what they once did, and who they have become because of it are not necessarily the same thing. If I want that grace extended toward me, I have to be willing to extend it toward others — without surrendering myself in the process.
Facts Are Not Verdicts
This is the distinction I’m learning to make. A fact is something I know. An interpretation is the meaning I assign to it. Those are not the same thing.
A complicated history is information. “This person is unsafe” is a conclusion. An unconventional choice is information. “This person is irresponsible” is an interpretation. A failed relationship is information. “This person cannot maintain a healthy relationship” is a theory. Maybe more evidence will eventually support the theory. Maybe it won’t. And I don’t have to decide today.
That’s the part that feels new. I can notice something. I can take it seriously. I can even put a little yellow Post-it note on it in my mind: *Hmmm.* And then I can leave it there. No emergency meeting of the Council of Annies. My inner critic Craig does not need to begin Googling “17 signs you have accidentally met a psychopath” at three in the morning. The information can simply be entered into evidence.
But I Don’t Owe Everybody a Trial
This is where the distinction becomes important, because refusing premature judgment does not mean giving everyone a chance. I don’t owe everybody discovery. Sometimes I already know enough. Sometimes something violates a core standard. Sometimes my body is telling me no. Sometimes there isn’t even a red flag — there is simply no connection. No compatibility. No interest. No desire to continue. And that is enough.
No is not necessarily a verdict on another person’s character. Sometimes it is simply a decision about access to my life. Judgment asks: *who do I believe this person to be?* Choice asks: *do I want this person in my life?* Those are entirely different questions. I may need considerably more evidence before deciding who I believe someone to be. I need no additional evidence whatsoever before deciding what I want.
That feels important enough to repeat: I do not have to prove that someone is wrong for me before I am allowed to choose myself. They don’t have to be bad. I don’t have to be afraid. There doesn’t have to be a red flag. Sometimes the answer is simply: no, thank you. No prosecution necessary.
When I Do Want to Know More
But sometimes I am interested. Something gives me pause, but nothing requires me to leave. I don’t want to ignore it. I don’t want to invent an explanation for it either. I simply don’t know what it means yet. That’s when the Court orders discovery. Not unlimited discovery. Not access without boundaries. Just time.
How does this person behave? Can they take responsibility for their mistakes? How do they respond when I say no? Can they tolerate disagreement? Do their words resemble their actions? When something goes wrong, can they repair? Who are they now?
Time testifies. Behavior testifies. Consistency testifies. And I get to testify too, because another person’s explanation is not the only evidence that matters. My experience of being with them is evidence.
Grace and Sovereignty Can Sit at the Same Table
For a long time, I think I treated grace and self-protection as opposing positions. If I understood why someone behaved as they did, perhaps I should accommodate it. If I recognized someone’s wounds, perhaps I should be patient. If I believed someone was fundamentally good, perhaps leaving was unfair.
I don’t believe that anymore. Understanding is not obligation. Compassion is not consent. Grace is not access. I can understand why someone behaves the way they do and still decide I don’t want that behavior in my life. I can believe someone is fundamentally good and decide they are not good for me. I can hear the history behind a wound without volunteering to become responsible for healing it. And I can walk away without first turning someone into a villain.
Sometimes incompatibility is enough. Sometimes my standards are enough. Sometimes my lack of interest is enough. Grace protects another person’s humanity. Sovereignty protects mine. They can sit at the same table.
Maybe This Is What Safety Looks Like Now
For much of my life, safety meant reading other people. Notice the shift. Anticipate the anger. Interpret the silence. Recognize the pattern. Figure out what someone wanted before they said it. If I could correctly predict someone else’s behavior, perhaps I could protect myself from it. That ability once served me. It also required an enormous amount of energy, because safety depended upon my ability to correctly predict you.
What I’m practicing now feels very different. Safety depends upon trusting me. I don’t need perfect information immediately — I need to trust that when information arrives that changes what I think, I will listen. I don’t need to guarantee that someone will never disappoint me — I need to trust that disappointment won’t require me to abandon myself. I don’t need to determine whether every person I meet is good or bad, safe or unsafe, green flag or red. Sometimes I can simply choose. And sometimes I can remain curious. Both belong to me.
The Ruling
So the Constitutional Court has issued another decision. When information concerns me, I will notice it. I will not minimize it. I will not romanticize it. But I will also resist turning incomplete evidence into certainty simply because certainty feels safer. Instead I can ask: what do I actually know? What am I inferring? What evidence is still missing? And perhaps most importantly: do I even want to know more?
If the answer is no, the inquiry ends. No indictment required. No diagnosis. No unanimous jury. No, thank you will do.
But if the answer is yes — if I’m interested, my standards remain intact, I feel safe enough to continue, and I simply don’t know what something means yet — I can tolerate not knowing. Not forever. Not foolishly. Not at the expense of myself. Just long enough for reality to provide additional testimony.
Because everyone I meet carries a file. So do I. A fact deserves attention. It does not automatically deserve a verdict. Grace does not require self-abandonment. Sovereignty does not require condemnation. Sometimes wisdom is knowing when to rule. Sometimes wisdom is knowing I don’t need a ruling at all.
And sometimes? The Court orders discovery.
Court adjourned.