“People get what they deserve.”
“Good things happen to good people.”
“You get what you work for.”

Let’s call this exactly what it is—polished, inspirational, refrigerator-magnet bullshit. If life actually handed out rewards based on effort or moral virtue, half the crooks would be bankrupt, the decent people would be wealthy, and we wouldn’t need dollar-store wisdom burned into driftwood to convince ourselves the universe is keeping score. It isn’t. It never has.

Meanwhile, back in reality, we all know the local hero who’s too “sick” to work but somehow does more cash jobs in a week than most people manage in a month. They collect two incomes, pay zero taxes, and brag about it while the rest of us bankroll their dental coverage. My father, on the other hand, spent all twelve months of every year at sea. He was at sea when he learned my brother had died. Did he ever get what he “deserved”? Not unless exhaustion was the grand prize.

But he did earn something better: self-respect. He never waited for the universe to hand him what he could claim through integrity.

For years, I didn’t understand that. I kept fitting myself into roles I never asked for—the reliable one, the agreeable one, the emotional shock absorber for people who couldn’t name their own feelings, let alone acknowledge mine. I tolerated one-sided friendships because I believed loyalty would eventually circle back. It didn’t.

My closest childhood friend—the one I visited daily and admired—was a perfect example. In truth, the “friendship” ran entirely on my effort. And when my world detonated in 2017, he was invisible. Not a call. Not a message. Nothing. I used to think I lost him. I didn’t. I finally realized I never actually had him.

When you stop performing for others, life snaps into focus. You start to see who truly values you and who simply values what you provide. Your circle becomes smaller, and the silence becomes soothing. Sometimes peace walks in the moment the wrong people walk out.

The same principle applies at work. I can respect you as a colleague without wanting you in my personal world. Being polite in the office does not grant lifetime access to my life. Professional warmth does not equal emotional connection. Knowing your worth means recognizing who has earned a deeper relationship—and who simply shares the lunchroom.

Family isn’t exempt from this lesson. They can love you while still resisting the person you’re becoming. Some want you to be predictable, uncomplicated, familiar—the version of you that never questioned boundaries. A family member once called me an “educated fool” because I “went back to university”. So supportive. Especially considering the most complex task they’d mastered was microwaving a Pizza Pop. Growth threatens those who haven’t grown themselves. Your worth does not require family approval. You can love them without shrinking for them. Sometimes distance is healthier than forced closeness when your values don’t align.

And then there’s rural living… Rural life can be peaceful, grounding, and deeply soulful—the rattle of a brook, the curve of the ocean, the sense of being tethered to something older than you. But I do not—and will not—bend myself into the shape required to “fit in” with people whose world  revolves around weather chat, booze, and gossip. If belonging demands pretending to enjoy endless stories about who installed new siding or why a police car drove by, I’ll happily stand on the outside.

If that makes me “different,” fantastic.
If that makes people whisper, wonderful—may the gossipers stay hydrated.
If I’m labeled aloof, weird, too quiet, nuts, too educated, too opinionated, or “too good for the rest of us,” even better. Their opinions hold zero value in my life, especially when I have no desire to join that club.

There is a difference between simple living and simply living. The shop owner who greets you with genuine care—that’s community. The neighbour who peeks through the curtains every time you pull in the driveway—that’s boredom searching for purpose.

Life becomes lighter the moment you drop the weight of other people’s expectations. You stop chasing approval from those who lack the depth to understand you. You stop trying to belong to places that never fit. You stop contorting yourself to make others comfortable.

I would rather talk about history, meaning, and real ideas than endure another sermon on tire changes or the wind. I don’t need to fit in.
I don’t want to fit in.
And I refuse to dilute myself ever again.

Knowing your worth isn’t arrogance. It’s clarity. It’s emotional maturity. It’s freedom.
Once you stop caring about the noise, you can finally hear your own life without static.