You probably know someone like him. He’s got that inoffensive kind of friendly face, and a big, easy smile. He’s the first to help out a friend, and he’s always agreeable. He never raises his voice. He never seems angry. He’s the guy people describe as, “Just soooo nice.” He’s the guy one who thinks up creative ways to show they care, who brings coffees to coworkers just the way they like them, who always asks politely before speaking up. He’s a bumbling, silly, goofy guy who’s quick with a punchline and happy to buy the next round. He’s the guy who’d be out at 6 am, clearing driveways for the neighbours, waving cheerfully at passersby. Everyone calls him thoughtful, caring, and nice, nice, nice.

You know him. You’ve seen him at backyard barbecues, making the dad jokes everyone laughs at, refilling your drink before you even ask. He’s charming, he’s silly, he’s lovable. He’s so damn affable, and he just looooooves love, right?

Oh, he’s so thoughtful, he’s so caring, he’s so charming—except when he isn’t.

And the trouble is, hardly anyone sees when he isn’t. Because cruelty isn’t always loud.

Abuse doesn’t always leave bruises. Sometimes it looks like generosity. Sometimes it sounds like a joke. Sometimes it wears your favourite shirt and brings you coffee and asks how your day was, with the same mouth that will later call you paranoid, demanding, and mean for asking for accountability.

Sometimes it’s being accused of “keeping score” because you remember too much, because you’ve had to, because being lied to so many times made you start keeping receipts just to feel sane.

It’s being told you’re suspicious and prying, even when you have proof in your hand. It’s being asked to trust while you’re actively being deceived.

It’s hearing, “Of course you can do what you want,” while the consequences for doing so quietly stack up.

It’s watching your freedoms shrink while he smiles and insists you’re free. It’s being left out of decisions, left hanging financially, then told you’re controlling when you ask to understand what’s happening.

It’s feeling the slow erosion of your voice through sighs, eye-rolls, silence.

It’s never outright saying you’re wrong, just never really listening to what you’re saying at all.

It’s walking away in the middle of hard conversations, and saying “you’re too sensitive” every time you cry or get upset.

It’s shrinking your experiences by changing the subject, cracking a joke, or “forgetting” important things you said.

It’s being painted as bitter while someone else rewrites history to protect their image.

Sometimes abuse is calm, soft-spoken, and polite.

It remembers birthdays and sends thank you cards. It can look like kindness, but it operates like control. It wears charm like armour.

And the worst part is that most people won’t see it, because they don’t want to. Because if they did, they’d have to admit that the person who made them laugh, who did the neighbourly thing, who never raised his voice… was still capable of doing harm. Real, lasting, intentional harm.

They don’t want to believe that someone so affable could also be manipulative. So instead, they look for someone to blame who makes a little more noise.

Enter, me.

I’m not quiet. I don’t smile through discomfort or swallow truth to keep the peace. I don’t play nice when harm is happening. I speak plainly. I name things for what they are. And for that, I’ve been called all kinds of charming things.

I’m the loud one. The difficult one. The one who doesn’t let things slide. I don’t sugarcoat. I don’t tiptoe. I don’t pretend things are fine when they’re not. My honesty makes people uncomfortable not because it’s actually cruel, but because it’s clear. And clarity, for some, is unforgivable. The truth can taste pretty bitter to someone who’s used to that sweet sugar coated deception, right?

People want soft voices. Polite silence. They want you to move on, not bring it up again. They want smiles instead of accountability. They want compliance disguised as maturity. They call it “healing” when you stop talking about what hurt you, because they just can’t stand the discomfort. Forgive and forget. Take the high road. Be “classy.” Don’t air your dirty laundry. Don’t tell people what really happened, because what’ll happen if someone has to face the consequences of their own actions?

But I don’t let things go that aren’t resolved. I can’t move on until the truth is acknowledged. I won’t gloss over betrayal to make other people feel more comfortable.

I talk about the lies, the manipulation, the abuse and the pain because that’s what healing actually looks like. It looks like not burying yourself to protect someone else’s image.

But somehow, that makes me the problem. I won’t disappear into politeness. I won’t shut up. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen.

People don’t want the truth, especially not when it’s messy. And definitely not when it’s personal. They want the illusion to stay intact, even when it costs someone else everything. So when harm happens—real harm—they look the other way. They make excuses. They downplay it. They’ll bend over backwards to protect the person who smiles and jokes and plays the part. They’ll say things like, “I’m sure he meant well.” They’ll say, “But he’s such a good guy.”

But when I speak plainly, when I say, “This is what he did” suddenly I’m the one making people uncomfortable. Suddenly I’m too angry, too intense, too unwilling to let it go. Suddenly I’m the one who’s “causing drama.”

I say “no” without apology, and that’s seen as aggression. I ask for accountability, and that’s called bitterness. I draw boundaries, and that’s framed as being mean.

Politeness without truth is complicity. And I won’t take part in that.

I’ve spent enough of my life being told to keep the peace while someone else made a mess I’m left to clean up. I’ve been asked to stay quiet, to take the high road, to be the bigger person—all while someone else got to lie, manipulate, and walk away clean. I’ve watched people bend over backwards to defend the person doing harm just because he’s nice to them.

But god forbid I raise my voice. God forbid I refuse to make myself small. God forbid I tell the truth.

When I do, I’m too much, too bitter, too direct, too emotional, too intense, too unwilling to just get over it.

But here’s the real question: Why do people get angry at the woman who won’t shut up, but not at the man who insisted on her silence?

Because people will choose comfort over truth every fucking time.

They’ll pick polite fiction over uncomfortable honesty, because they don’t want to believe someone can smile and still hurt you. They’d rather believe that loud means aggressive, opinionated means difficult, and assertive means intimidating, than face the truth that sometimes cruelty looks perfectly polite.

I’ll keep choosing clarity, directness, truth, because honest conversation is how we reclaim ourselves. It’s how we name harm. It’s how we stop tolerating it. We’re not difficult or intimidating or harsh; we’re just refusing to play the game where we swallow pain to protect someone else’s comfort.

People like him rarely get questioned. People like me rarely get believed. But if you’re paying attention, the truth is right there. Look closer.

And if you’ve been there, if you’ve lived inside that kind of silence, if you’ve second guessed your instincts, if you’ve twisted yourself in knots just trying to be believed, then you already know. You don’t need the proof, you’ve got the scars.

And if you’re still in it, still unpacking the damage, still wondering if it was really that bad, let me say this as clearly as I can: It was.

You are not too much.
You are not overreacting.
You are not hard to love.

I see you clearly, honestly, and without apology.
You aren’t alone.