Dear Loui – I Don’t Know How to Be Around People Anymore (And Nothing Feels Mutual)

✨ Content is free—but crows like snacks.

✉️ An anonymous message from the Crow Hotline...

Dear Loui,

I don’t know how to be around people anymore.

I’ve changed so much in the past few years—spiritually, emotionally, physically. I’m not the version of me they remember. And honestly? I don’t miss her. I got healthy. I got better. I got happy.

But now, being around family—or really anyone—feels weird. Awkward. Like I’m performing a role I don’t fit into anymore.

I catch myself fake smiling, nodding, fawning just to make everyone else comfortable. And I resent it. That’s what I’ve always done.

My partner and I don’t fawn over each other. Our dynamic at home is honest, relaxed, real. But out there? I still find myself slipping into this lifetime habit of shape-shifting.

I don’t know how to stop doing that while still trying to have relationships with these people... Or maybe I do know. Maybe I’m afraid to admit that if they only cared for the version of me who performed—then they never really cared at all.

I just see it now. No one really listens. No one asks how we’re doing. And when someone finally does ask a question? We get interrupted six words in.

Meanwhile, we’re stuck hearing about the weather, or someone’s health issues, or the same old spiral—eight minutes at a time. No one ever has anything good to say. And I’ve worked too hard to get away from that kind of talk.

We feel like we trigger people just by being who we are now. And it’s not because we’re loud or dramatic—we just stopped hiding.

And now, I don’t know how to exist in relationships where I’m no longer playing the old part.

We’re trying to give people a chance for the sake of our kid. But truthfully, none of them have ever really tried to build a bond. They don’t ask questions. They don’t feel safe. And our child picks up on it. He doesn't want to hug them. Doesn’t want to be held. And we feel that.

I don’t want to force him into energy I don’t even trust myself.

I’m tired of pretending. And I feel guilty about that.

I don’t reach out. But they don’t either. And I don’t know if I’m being distant… or if I finally stopped being the only one doing the work.

Is it okay to outgrow people? Even the ones who say they love you?

— Disappearing Mid-Sentence

💌 Loui Responds...

Dear Disappearing,

Oh baby crow. That’s not distance you’re feeling—it’s honesty hitting oxygen for the first time.

You’ve changed. Not in a selfish way. In a sacred way.

And now that you’ve stopped fawning, performing, and tap-dancing for scraps of connection—you’re seeing clearly:

What you used to call “a relationship” was really just you doing all the emotional labor.

You were the one smiling first.
Nodding along. Laughing at the weird jokes.
Shrinking yourself to fit. Making other people comfortable in rooms where you felt invisible.

And now?

You’ve stopped shrinking. You’re showing up as yourself. Not louder. Not colder. Just… unedited.

And those who were comforted by your smallness? They’re confused. Or quiet. Or sitting across from you with nothing left to say but “So… how’s the baby?”

This isn’t rejection.
This is a system recalibrating.

You didn’t disappear. You stopped performing.
And once the performance ended… there wasn’t much left onstage.

And that ache in your chest? That “Should I be checking in more?” feeling?

That’s not guilt.
That’s grief over the roles you used to play.
The ones you had to outgrow in order to live.

Let yourself grieve them.
Let yourself feel weird, tender, raw.

It means you’re not numb anymore.
It means the spell is wearing off.

You’re not cold. You’re clear.

✉️ Follow-Up: Still In the Fog

Dear Loui,

That helped more than I can say.

But I still feel… wrong, somehow.
I think about messaging people all the time. But then I don’t.
And then I feel bad.

There’s someone who used to contact me constantly.
Updates, over-sharing, gifts—like I was their emotional anchor.
But when I didn’t respond the way they expected—when I didn’t jump in with comfort, or validation, or the version of me they were used to…

They pulled away.

No follow-up. No check-in. Just… silence.

After years of daily contact, it was like I’d stopped playing a part they didn’t know how to relate to anymore.

And someone else in my life still expects me to initiate every conversation. I’ve tried. They have too. But it’s never mutual. We just… don’t see the world the same way anymore.

It feels like all the relationships are fading. Even the ones that felt “safe.”

I don’t know if I’m wrong for how I’m showing up…
Or if I just stopped playing along.

Please tell me I’m not broken.

— Quiet, But Still Here

💌 Loui’s Final Mic-Drop:

Baby crow. You are so far from broken.

You’re just waking up in a room full of people still pretending to be asleep.

It’s disorienting. It’s lonely. It’s sacred.

You didn’t burn bridges. You stopped carrying them.
And the silence that followed? That’s not punishment.
That’s a truth you never had space to feel until now.

You don’t have to explain your growth to people who are allergic to self-awareness.
You don’t have to keep softening just so they won’t flinch.
You don’t have to shrink back into the version of you they were comfortable with.

They didn’t vanish because you failed them.
They vanished because your boundary didn’t give them the emotional payoff they expected.

That’s not abandonment. That’s exposure.

And your child? They know.

They read energy better than any adult in the room.
They’re not cold. They’re not fussy.
They just don’t pretend to like people who don’t feel safe.

Let them be your guide.

You’re not raising a people-pleaser.
You’re modeling what it looks like to trust your own energy.

And that’s not cold.
That’s revolutionary.

Let them think you’re distant.
Let them miss the version of you that bent backwards.
Let them sit in the quiet and wonder why the show stopped.

Because you?

You’re finally building something real.
And real connection doesn’t start with guilt.
It starts with being met.

💊 Loui Crow Prescription:

• Decline one invitation that makes your stomach clench, then dance in the kitchen to reclaim the timeline.

• Sit on the floor, back against a wall, and say out loud:
  “I’m allowed to not be who they remember.”

• Write a letter to your guilt. Sign it with fire. Burn it.
  Or bury it in the sock drawer with the version of you who used to people-please.

Take daily.
No refill required.
You’re not avoiding life.
You’re just shedding the version that didn’t belong to you.

🖤 — Loui Crow