There’s a very specific muscle you develop when you know something that might help people, but you absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances want to be that person.
You know the Brenda. You definitely know the Karen. The ones who mean well. The ones who once read half an article and now have thoughts.
The ones who say “I’m not telling you what to do, but…” and then absolutely tell you what to do.
Have you tried cutting out gluten? My cousin did yoga and now she’s cured. It’s probably stress. Those people. The unsolicited-advice crowd. The “have you tried…” professionals. The humans everyone slowly drifts away from at parties.
And I refuse to become one of them. So instead, I smile. I nod. I say socially acceptable things like: “That sounds really tough.” “Yeah… stress can definitely do that.” While a very calm, very polite little voice in my head is whispering: Interesting. Very interesting.
Because people love to tell you how bad they feel. Like… really love it. Suddenly I know intimate details about their digestion. Not because I asked. But because apparently this is a safe space now.
Their energy? Gone. They’re running on fumes. Or “low battery mode.”
And in one single breath they’ll casually drop:
inflammation, anxiety, cravings, joint pain, brain fog, bad skin
plus that vague “I just feel off” that no doctor can explain.
But here’s the thing: being a carnivore (or even just carnivore-curious) is… sensitive territory. People have opinions. Strong ones. Loud ones. Often uninvited ones.
So I don’t say: “What if it’s the plants?” “What if your body just wants simplicity?” “What if steak isn’t the enemy everyone thinks it is? I don’t say it because I’m not trying to convert anyone. I’m not recruiting. There is no secret handshake. At least, not one I’m allowed to talk about.
I’m just holding my tongue, thinking: that it’s wild how normalized feeling bad has become.
Somehow, suggesting a new app is fine. Meditation is enlightened. More sleep is responsible. Even changing what you eat is encouraged, as long as it’s kale, juice, or something that looks good on Instagram.
But mention that food matters, and that eating less different things might actually help,
and suddenly you’ve disrespected someone’s grandmother, culture, morals, and their entire houseplant ecosystem.
So I stay quiet. Not because I’m unsure. Not because I don’t care.
But because timing matters, and autonomy matters, and nobody wants to be “fixed” by someone else’s enthusiasm.
Still… sometimes, when someone finishes a long rant about how awful they feel and asks, “I just don’t know what to do anymore,” I feel the urge rise. Not to preach. Not to persuade. Just to gently slide a steak across the table and say:
“You don’t have to do this forever. Just… consider that the solution might be simpler than you think.” Then I smile again. Sip my hot water. And keep my thoughts to myself.
Mostly..
The Woman Behind the Jersey 