The Measuring Stick

Week 2 of Offstage

Have you ever noticed that you can’t put certain people in the same room?

Not because they won’t get along. Because you won’t.

I have two groups I love dearly — my friends and my cousins. Separately, I’m fully present with both. Together? I wouldn’t know which version of me to be. So somehow, without ever making a conscious decision, I just... keep them apart. Problem solved. Except not really.

Here’s something I’ve never said out loud:

I cannot be casual with my seniors. Not at work, not outside of it — not even when they’re warm first, not even when they make it easy. Something in me just won’t allow it. There’s a switch that doesn’t turn on. I’ve watched it happen in real time and still couldn’t stop it.

And it’s not just seniors. I have a whole internal rulebook.

How long have I known this person? What kind of person are they? What have they seen of me already? Based on all of that, I decide — almost instantly, almost unconsciously — how much of myself to let through. How casual I can be. How honest. How much.

And look — some of this makes sense.

You don’t speak to your boss the way you speak to your best friend. You don’t open up to a stranger the way you open up to someone who’s known you for ten years. That’s not dishonesty. That’s just being human. That’s just reading the room.

But here’s where it gets uncomfortable.

Think of it like baking. If I’m making a cake, I use two sticks of butter. If I’m making cookies, I use one. The measurement makes sense — once I’ve decided what I’m baking.

But what if I never decided?

What if the recipe has always been chosen by whoever walked into the room — and I just adjusted the butter accordingly? What if I’ve been calibrating my whole life, so automatically, so constantly, that I never stopped to ask — what do I actually want to make?

And here’s the part I’m only recently starting to sit with.

Sometimes the measuring is protective. Keeping certain worlds separate, staying guarded with people who have power over you, rationing your openness — that’s not weakness. Vulnerability is genuinely risky. You’ve learned things. The walls went up for a reason.

But if I’m being really honest?

Most of the time, it’s not protection driving the calibration.

It’s wanting to be liked. Wanting them to turn around one day and say — you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. The best partner. The perfect companion. The colleague everyone wants on their team. The child they’re proud of. It’s not loud or desperate. It’s quiet. Almost imperceptible. But it’s there — this steady hum of wanting to be chosen, to be ranked first, to be worth it to someone.

I see you. I take maybe three seconds. And I decide — here’s the version of me you get. Recipe selected. Butter measured. Let’s begin.

The thing is, I’m pretty good at it. The version I serve is usually well-received. People feel comfortable. The interaction goes smoothly. By most measures, it works.

But lately I’ve been wondering — what if I just... started mixing? Didn’t pre-decide. Added the butter as the moment asked for it. Stayed curious about what was coming together instead of following a recipe I’d already written in my head.

What if the most interesting thing I’ve ever made wasn’t something I planned at all?

Because here’s the question I can’t shake:

If the recipe is always chosen before we even begin — how would we ever know what we’re actually capable of making?