I have personally used my Facebook Story as a weapon. Not my proudest moment, but here we are.
You know those passive aggressive Facebook posts? The inspirational quotes that aren’t actually inspirational? The song lyrics that just happen to perfectly describe a very specific person who supposedly isn’t going to see them? Yeah, those. We’ve all seen them. Some of us have posted them. And some of us are about to pretend we have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. I see you.
There was a time when I posted a picture of a quote that said something along the lines of, “Accusations from a narcissist are actually confessions.” Except this wasn’t some subtle little black and white quote with a pretty font. Oh, no. The words were written across garage doors. WITH BALLOONS. Because apparently, when I wanted to make a point, I needed the emotional equivalent of a neighborhood grand opening.
And did I just post it, close the app, and peacefully go about my day? Absolutely not. I put it on my Facebook Story because Facebook had conveniently provided me with a feature that told me exactly who had viewed it. I wanted to know when one very specific person had seen my little masterpiece.
What I remember most is the excitement. Not anxiety. Not regret. Excitement. I don’t remember what inspired that particular act of immaturity, but apparently I woke up one day and decided the internet needed a little unnecessary drama. I checked the viewers, waited for the intended recipient to see it, and eventually, they did.
In that moment, I felt victorious. Mission accomplished. My ridiculously elaborate Facebook operation had been a success.
Except what exactly had I won? It hadn’t cleared the air. It certainly hadn’t made an already tense situation any better. In fact, I’d managed to set myself up for a situation where I couldn’t possibly win. If they never viewed the Story, I’d be irritated that my little performance had gone unnoticed. But if they saw it and responded angrily, I’d be upset about whatever they said in return. I’d created a situation where every possible outcome gave me another reason to be unhappy, and somehow, I’d convinced myself that I was the one coming out victorious.
Looking back now, I genuinely want to crawl underneath my couch. Ma’am, you’re a grown woman. WHAT ARE WE DOING? This is the kind of behavior I would expect from someone navigating their first middle school breakup, not an adult who pays property taxes.
But before we get too comfortable laughing at my expense, can we acknowledge how often we do this in less obvious ways? Maybe you’ve never posted a pointed quote online, but have you ever responded to a message with a single “k” because you wanted someone to know you were irritated? Started putting periods at the end of texts when you normally wouldn’t, because apparently punctuation is now a form of emotional warfare? Or insisted you didn’t care whether someone reached out while secretly checking your phone? It’s funny how much effort we can put into proving we don’t care.
At the time, I wasn’t calling my Facebook Story passive aggressive. I was making a point. Standing up for myself without having to confront someone directly. If you’d asked whether the post was about anybody, I probably would’ve shrugged and said, “Oh, I just thought it was a good quote.”
Sure, Jan.
But here’s the part I don’t particularly enjoy admitting. I wanted to poke the bear. I wanted to believe I was taking the high road while quietly scattering thumbtacks all over it. If I provoked an angry response, I could point to it as further evidence that my hurt was justified without acknowledging that I’d deliberately stirred things up.
That’s the uncomfortable part of looking back. I wasn’t trying to clear the air. I was trying to get a reaction. And if that reaction gave me another reason to be upset, I was prepared to use it as proof that I’d been right all along.
Which brings me to something I’ve had to think about quite a bit. Why is it sometimes easier to communicate our feelings to everyone except the person we’re actually feeling them toward? Why does a carefully chosen quote feel safer than saying, “What happened hurt me”?
I think part of the answer is that indirect communication gives us an escape route. We can express our feelings without fully admitting what we’re expressing. If someone confronts us, we can deny the message was intended for them. If nobody responds, we can pretend we weren’t waiting for a reaction. We get to reveal just enough of ourselves to feel heard without risking the vulnerability that comes with saying exactly what we mean.
Except there’s a problem. The other person is now responsible for interpreting a message we haven’t clearly delivered. We might think our intentions are obvious, but what if they aren’t? What if they genuinely don’t know we’re upset? What if they interpret our silence as wanting space when what we actually want is reassurance?
And here’s an especially uncomfortable possibility. What if we’re not avoiding honest communication because we don’t know what to say, but because we’re afraid of how someone might react? Sometimes it’s not rejection we’re afraid of. It’s the possibility of disappointing someone, upsetting them, or making them angry with us. So instead of expressing what we’re feeling, we drop hints, change our tone, or hope they’ll figure it out themselves.
Sometimes we convince ourselves that if someone really loved us, they’d just know. They’d recognize the change in our tone, notice that we stopped reaching out, or somehow connect a song lyric to the argument we had three weeks ago. But loving someone doesn’t automatically make them a mind reader. And expecting them to pass a test they don’t know they’re taking doesn’t necessarily tell us whether they care. It might only tell us that we’ve been communicating in code.
And maybe that’s where we need to challenge ourselves. If we have an issue with someone, why are we so often discussing it with everyone except the person involved? We tell our friends, our spouses, our coworkers, and occasionally our entire Facebook friends list, but somehow the person we’re actually upset with is the last to hear about it. There’s nothing wrong with seeking advice or needing someone to talk to. But there’s a difference between processing our feelings with someone we trust and expecting a vague Facebook post or the family grapevine to resolve a problem we’ve never directly addressed. If we genuinely want an opportunity for understanding, the conversation usually needs to happen with the person involved.
Sometimes we need time to understand our feelings before we can explain them to someone else. But there’s a difference between taking a moment to collect our thoughts and deliberately communicating through hints, silence, or carefully chosen punctuation. One helps us prepare for a conversation. The other leaves someone guessing whether we’re even having one.
I’ve started realizing that before I can communicate what I need, I have to be willing to admit what that need actually is. And sometimes that’s the hardest part. Am I upset about an unanswered message, or am I afraid I’m not as important to that person as they are to me? Am I hoping someone notices my silence because asking for attention feels embarrassing?
There’s a big difference between telling someone, “You never make time for me,” and admitting, “I’ve been missing you, and I’d really like us to spend some time together.” One invites an argument about who’s right. The other gives someone an opportunity to understand what we’re feeling.
And sometimes, if we’re being particularly honest, we don’t necessarily want to have the uncomfortable conversation. We want the other person to feel uncomfortable enough to come looking for one. But there’s a difference between making someone feel our frustration and helping them understand it. The purpose of communication matters. Are we trying to help someone understand our experience, or are we trying to make them feel as miserable as we do?
And are we actually prepared for the possibility that they’ll see things differently? That’s another part of open communication we don’t think about enough. The purpose of addressing a conflict should be to understand each other and figure out how to move forward. But speaking honestly is only half of that. Listening requires us to make room for a response that might not sound anything like the one we’ve rehearsed in our heads. Someone might disagree with us. They might explain something we didn’t know. They might even tell us that our own behavior was hurtful. And if we’re only willing to communicate when we’re guaranteed agreement, are we really seeking understanding?
I’m learning that open communication doesn’t require a perfectly worded speech. Sometimes it begins with something as ordinary as, “Hey, something’s been bothering me, and I don’t know how to explain it very well.” It might mean asking for reassurance instead of testing whether someone will offer it. Or telling someone we need a little space rather than disappearing and hoping they understand why.
And sometimes the most useful thing we can do is pause before reacting and ask ourselves what we’re hoping will happen next. If the answer is “I want them to get angry,” maybe we aren’t ready to communicate yet. Maybe we need a little time to sort through what we’re feeling before involving someone else.
I wish I could tell you I’ve completely outgrown all of this, but I haven’t. I still know what it’s like to want someone to notice I’m upset without having to explain why. The difference is that I’m getting better at recognizing those impulses before acting on them. And when I look back at that Facebook Story, I can laugh at the garage doors, the balloons, and the ridiculous amount of effort I put into communicating absolutely nothing useful. But I can also have compassion for the version of myself who thought provoking a reaction was the best way to express her hurt. Understanding why I behaved that way doesn’t mean excusing it. It means recognizing that my feelings were real, even when my choices weren’t particularly helpful.
So the next time you’re tempted to post that suspiciously specific quote, leave someone on read to prove a point, or respond with a single “k” because apparently we’re using the alphabet to express our emotional distress, maybe ask yourself something.
Do I want this person to understand me, or do I just want them to know I’m upset? Because those aren’t always the same thing. And if what we really want is to be understood, maybe it’s worth asking whether we’ve given someone the opportunity to hear what we’re actually trying to say.
With love and a little grace,
Ashton ♡
Leave a Reply