Damn, Am I Actually Mean?

For years, I thought of myself as kind. Not just kind, but intentionally kind. The kind of kind where you make sure your friends get home safely, you check in on people even when they don’t check in on you, and you always, tip well.

But recently, I had a moment of clarity. One of those gut-punch realizations that force you to sit with yourself, blink into the middle distance, and whisper, Damn. Am I actually mean?

And not in the “villain origin story” kind of way where I go around stomping on people’s dreams for fun. No, I mean mean in the way that when I don’t get my way, or more accurately, when I don’t feel emotionally safe, that tongue gets to working. And when I say working, I mean lethal.

The Art of Being “Mean”

It’s not just yelling or throwing things… That’s not necessarily my brand of meanness.

My mean has layers. It’s a strategic, cutting, custom-tailored experience. If I feel triggered or slighted, suddenly, I’m a poet, a linguist, a battle rapper with no beat. I find the exact words that will make someone question their own existence, their choices, and why they ever thought it was okay to upset me. It’s not even always loud. Sometimes, it’s a simple “That’s crazy” laced with enough subtext to fill a novel.

And here’s the thing….. I know it’s not great. I know that “being right” isn’t always the flex I think it is, but when I feel backed into a corner? Oh, I will win the argument. It doesn’t even have to be an argument. You could just be existing in a way that displeases me, and suddenly, I have a monologue ready.

I’m My Mother’s Daughter For Sure

This realization hit even harder when I thought about my mother. For years, I told myself I was not like her. That I had dodged the generational curse. But recently? I had to sit with the uncomfortable truth: I am her child.

Growing up, I remember her sharp responses, her ability to make a single comment that would send people into a spiral. And I used to think, I will never be like that. But fast forward to adulthood, and here I am, crafting sentences with the same precision, delivering words that land with impact. Not necessarily out of cruelty, but out of habit. Out of defense. Out of the unshakable belief that if I don’t use my words as armor, I’ll be left vulnerable.

I see it now: The way my frustration turns into sarcasm, the way my patience has a short fuse when I feel unheard, the way my delivery is often sharper than intended. And I see it most clearly in relationships.

One of the recurring issues in my last relationship was my delivery. Not what I was saying, but how I was saying it. And honestly?

I guess it’s fair. Because when I feel frustrated, unheard, or dismissed, my ability to be gentle disappears faster than my than tax refund check (if you know, you know).

I know exactly how to phrase something so it lands right where it hurts. And that’s… well, mean.

Not in an intentional, I-want-you-to-suffer kind of way, but in a I-need-you-to-feel-the-weight-of-this-because-I-feel-it kind of way.

If you don’t hear me, you damn sure are gonna FEEL me.

It’s a pattern I’ve started to unpack… how so much of my meanness is really about control.

There… I said it.

When I don’t feel emotionally safe, I use sharpness as a shield.

When I feel like I’m losing my footing in a situation, my instinct is to win. To have the last word, to make the point so sharp it can’t be argued against.

And sure, I could justify it. I could say, Well, people shouldn’t push me to that point! But the reality is, life is full of things that don’t go my way. Not every moment of discomfort requires a cutting response. Not every slight needs a full dissertation with footnotes.

The Infamous Brother Incident

If I needed more proof of my meanness, I can revisit an interaction I had with my brother early last year. Now, I won’t go into the full he owed me money for something that was quite literally his fault saga, but let’s just say it involved some funds, some delayed payments, and a level of audacity on his part that I could not ignore.

When the situation finally came to a head, I didn’t yell. I didn’t threaten. But what I did do was lay out my case and speak the fucking facts. The precision. The facts. The undeniable logic. I had him backed into a rhetorical corner so tight that he had no choice but to say, “fuck you”. And I get it… he still owes me that money though. We have not spoken since.

In the moment, it felt like a victory. But afterward, I had to ask myself—was my goal to get my money back? Or was my goal to make him feel like the worst person on the planet for not paying me on time? If I’m honest, it was probably both. And that’s the problem.

So… Now What?

Here’s the thing… I still believe I’m a kind person. A deeply kind person, even. But kindness and meanness aren’t mutually exclusive. And realizing that I can be mean doesn’t mean I have to stay that way.

This isn’t some dramatic declaration that I’m about to become a soft-spoken, always-gentle, never-cutting person. Let’s be real, I’m still gonna have moments where my frustration gets the best of me. But what I can do is be more intentional. I can recognize that my sharpness isn’t always necessary. That not everything requires a verbal sniper shot. That sometimes, I can just… let things be.

(Starts twitching)

Because at the end of the day, being “right” doesn’t feel as good as being understood. And making my point isn’t as important as making sure the people I love still feel safe with me.

So, yeah. I’m kind. I’m also mean. But I’m working on it. One less-sharp comment at a time.