Relatable v. powerful
Come, sit with me and let's whack this here hornet's nest
There’s a thing in modern writing circles, especially online, especially for women and other marginalized folks, where we’re taught to “relate” rather than reveal. We’re taught, explicitly or not, that the way to build trust is to perform pain. Share your wounds. Be relatable. Show your humanity by showing your hurt.
The thinking is: if you show shared struggle, people will like you more. They’ll trust you. They’ll engage.
The algorithm likes it. So does the culture. But here’s the cost: it trains us to perform shared struggle instead of naming power.
Don’t think this is a thing? Why then, after the recent Diddy verdict, did thousands of women take to social media to describe the pain of not being believed about sexual abuse? Why after the truth was first revealed about Harvey Weinstein’s pattern of sexual abuse? Because deep down, we have internalized the message that we must perform our pain to be believed and be credible. We have internalized the message that we aren’t automatically given the benefit of the doubt and must earn it. And the bar is so low that we’ve accepted that just being believed and nobody being shitty to us is the best we can do in terms of power.
Instead of saying something incisive or strategic, we couch it in “my experience” and downshift what we really want to say into soft anecdotes, watered-down feelings, or vulnerable-but-ultimately-safe disclosures. We tiptoe around critique by softening it. We get up to the edge of something dangerous and true then flatten it into vague vulnerability so it won’t sound “mean.” We edge right up to the line of something true, then swerve into the personal so we don’t have to hold the tension. We put effort into resonating when we should be trying to rupture something.
It’s not that struggle isn’t real. To be sure, shared struggle is a thing, and it feels real and works because it works. We do bond over frustrating bullshit sometimes. Shared struggle can lead to powerful collective demands that get heard. But the message here isn’t “don’t talk about struggle.” The message is: don’t use relatability as a shield. Don’t let the demand for performed vulnerability distract you from bigger truths and the legacy-building path you’re on.
Relatability isn’t a virtue. It’s a style of containment. It’s literally about embodying the quality that makes it easy for others to like you. Think about that. It says: I’m someone doing the emotional labor to make sure the rest of you like me and are comfortable. And when we contort our writing to be digestible, sympathetic, or likable, we dull the edge. When we use it, even subconsciously, to seek safety or approval, we lose sharpness and power. We confuse resonance for rigor.
If you’ve ever found yourself trying to sound “relatable” instead of saying what you actually think, write about that moment. Hint: it might be something that starts with, “well, yes, but I…” because we’re so deeply programmed to believe it is absolute truth that “maybe I my first draft sounded too harsh.” It might be true, but it also might not and it also might not be the worst thing if it did.
Today, I invite you to reflect on what you’ve watered down and why. What would you say now, if you didn’t owe anyone softness and the effort of making them comfortable with your message? Because the truth is you do not owe anyone that.
