Stop Assuming We Know

“Why didn’t you just say something?” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. It always comes after the fact—after the meltdown, the silence, the fight, the missed cue. After I’ve already run out of energy or words. The assumption is that if I didn’t speak up, it must mean I understood what was going on. That I had all the context. That I was on the same page. That I was just choosing not to participate. But that’s never been how my brain works. If I could have said something—I would have. If I knew what was expected—I would have done it. If I understood the rules—I wouldn’t have broken them. People don’t get that. They assume knowledge is shared, automatic, intuitive. That we’re all walking around with the same user manual for human interaction. But some of us got a different edition. Or maybe we got one with missing pages. And we’ve spent our entire lives flipping through it, trying to catch up. When I was a kid, I got labeled “bright but difficult.” I knew things other kids didn’t. I picked up facts fast. But I missed what seemed obvious to everyone else. I didn’t know I had to greet people before asking a question. I didn’t know silence meant discomfort. I didn’t know when to wait, when to jump in, when to make eye contact, when to back away. So I copied. And when that didn’t work, I froze. And when that didn’t work, I got in trouble. No one ever said, “Maybe she doesn’t know.” They said I was being fresh. Or rude. Or manipulative. They assumed that I understood and chose to ignore the script. But I never knew the script. I still don’t, sometimes. I can’t count the number of adult conversations I’ve had where I smiled and nodded while internally screaming, “Wait—what are we actually talking about?” I’ve signed things I didn’t understand, agreed to things I thought meant something else, hurt people I didn’t realize I was hurting, and been hurt by people who assumed I was fine because I looked fine. And I want to say, for the record: pretending to understand is not the same as understanding. I’ve masked confusion for so long, it’s become muscle memory. I’ll laugh along, ask vague questions, use filler words to buy time while my brain catches up. Not because I’m being fake, but because I’ve been punished for needing clarity. I don’t always know how to say, “I’m lost.” Or “This doesn’t make sense to me.” Or “Can you explain that a different way?” Not because I don’t want to. But because I’m not sure if it’s safe. Because asking those questions has gotten me labeled slow, difficult, defiant, dramatic. So here’s what I wish people understood: Don’t assume I know. Ask. Don’t wait until I’ve shut down to clarify. Offer it before I fall silent. Don’t confuse politeness with comprehension. Sometimes I’m being polite because I’m completely overwhelmed. And don’t make me choose between being honest and being liked. Because if you’ve never been on the receiving end of “You should have said something,” I promise you—it’s not because we didn’t want to speak. It’s because we couldn’t. Not then. Not in that way. Not under those conditions. Communication goes both ways. If you’re waiting for me to reach out, maybe try reaching in…