Why I Write the Way I Do: From People-Pleasing to Presence

There’s something vulnerable about writing in your own voice—especially when you know people are watching. Recently, someone close to me questioned whether I’ve been too open in my blogs. “Aren’t you worried about what people will think?” they asked. I used to be. I’m not anymore.

As I’ve gotten older, I care less about what people think—and am not controlled by it—but remain conscious. I'm not writing to impress or be seen, for noise or notice - I'm writing to create connection. I write to make meaning—for healing, for resonance, for clarity, and for anyone who’s ever carried a feeling they couldn’t quite name until now, who’s needed words for the things they’ve only ever felt in silence.

My Blog Is Not a Diary

Writing isn’t just self-expression—it’s a way of turning my experience into something useful, something that reaches beyond one person's story. My writing is personal, yes, but never without purpose. These reflections aren’t shared for exposure, but offered with strategic transparency. There’s intention behind every word.

I use my stories as a mirror for others - unpacking emotions so someone else can recognize their own. The process is shared not to seek sympathy, but to support deeper understanding. Mental health isn’t a list of clinical tips—it’s raw, real, and ongoing. When that work is modeled honestly, it becomes more accessible to those navigating it quietly. That’s part of why I write the way I do—to make the unseen seen, to model what healing looks like in motion.

The Difference Between Caring and Being Conscious

But telling the truth, especially in public, comes with its own internal tug-of-war. And for a long time, that tension showed up in one very specific way: caring too much about what other people thought. I didn't know the difference between caring what people thought and being conscious of it. I’ve since come to understand they aren’t the same. One is rooted in fear and the need for approval; the other, in awareness and the courage to stay true to yourself even while being seen.

Caring about what people think means letting their opinions affect how you see yourself or make decisions. I used to be so afraid of people “getting the wrong impression” or being uncomfortable that I would adjust and shrink myself, swallow my own truth just to keep the peace or keep up appearances. I replayed conversations in my head and thought obsessively about the impression I gave. Eventually, I lost track of who I was outside of how I was perceived.

Being conscious, though? That’s different. Being conscious of what people think is about awareness without attachment; you observe others’ perceptions to navigate social dynamics wisely, but your self-worth and choices remain rooted in your own values. Once I made that shift—from caring to consciousness—freedom embraced me like a tailored suit. I’m not looking over my shoulder or filtering myself to be more likable. I live and write from a place that’s rooted, not reactive.

Why We Care What People Think

Getting to that rooted place isn’t always easy—especially when the pull to be accepted runs deep. Many of us care so much about what people think not because we’re weak but because we’re wired to. As humans, the need to feel seen and to belong runs deep. And for those of us who’ve known rejection, judgment, or conditional love, seeking validation often became a survival strategy—a way to stay safe.

There was a time when pleasing others felt like survival. Silence became easier than speaking up. Smiles were offered in place of disagreement, just to dodge the weight of disapproval. Over time, the constant self-editing took a toll—until even the sound of my own voice felt unfamiliar. Not just the words, but the wants, the needs. The deeper truths. And somewhere along the way, approval began to matter more than alignment. That kind of loss is quiet… but the return to yourself? That’s where the power lives.

Why I Write This Way

Reclaiming that voice happened gradually, and is the reason I write this way. I write the way I do, not because I have all the answers, but to stay connected to the emotional core of honesty—not just to tell the truth, but to feel it, to live it, and to offer it in a way that resonates.

I choose to write about the real things - the quiet questions, the contradictions, the moments that change us without warning. It’s not content for the sake of content or generic posts that could have been written by anyone, anywhere. I want what I share to be deeply human, deeply personal, and deeply useful.

Who This Is Really For

Not everyone will understand what I’m doing here—and honestly, that’s okay. My writing isn’t meant for everyone. It’s for those who feel like they’re drowning in silence, who’ve perfected the art of seeming okay while carrying more than they should have to. It’s for people who crave something real—who want to learn, yes, but also to feel. Who are tired of polished façades and ready to sit with the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s for anyone caught in the in-between—somewhere between breaking down and breaking through, and just need language for what they’ve been holding in their chest for too long. If my words make you pause… exhale… maybe even cry a little—you are who I’m writing for.

Therapeutic Storytelling - Lita’s Lens

Every reflection I share comes through a specific lens—one shaped by personal healing, therapeutic insight, and a deep respect for what it means to be human. I don’t write just to recount what’s happened; I write to explore what it means. To ask: What is this moment revealing? How might it stretch or soften us? What can it teach us about being human, about becoming whole? This isn’t about storytelling for its own sake. It’s about turning lived experience into something resonant. Something that doesn’t just land in someone’s ears, but reaches their chest.

My background in spirituality and mental health guides me here—not in a clinical sense, but in a compassionate one. I hold each moment with curiosity and care. I ask myself: What’s here to feel? To learn? To offer? And only when that becomes clear do I shape it into something I can share.

This is what my blog moniker Lita’s Lens means: seeing with depth, writing with presence and holding space for what’s tender, unspoken, or unfinished. Because sometimes the most meaningful insights don’t come from having answers—they come from what is felt but rarely named.

A Final Word - Not Writing to Please People

This, in many ways, is my answer to the person who asked if I was being too open in my writing—if I’d thought about what people might say, how they might talk about me. There was a time when it would have rattled me, made me retreat. But now, after everything I’ve unlearned and reclaimed, I see it differently.

Vulnerability isn’t recklessness. It’s courage. And writing this way, living this way, isn’t about telling all my business. It’s about telling the truth. Not for validation, not for shock value, but for liberation. For connection. For meaning.

I write because it brings me home to myself. It helps me make sense of the quiet things, the tender things, the questions that don’t always have neat answers. I write because there’s power in articulating the quiet truths—and because someone, somewhere, is still sitting with the same weight—and hasn’t found the language for it yet.

I’m not writing to impress or protect an image—I’m writing to reflect and stay grounded in truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because for me, honesty matters more than approval. My words will find who they’re meant for. And if they don’t land everywhere, that’s not failure—it’s freedom. I’ll keep writing, not to be approved of, but to stay in alignment. To tell the truth with care, with clarity, and with conviction. Because that’s what feels honest and true. And sometimes, that’s the only reason you need.

Written by Carlita L. Coley, LPC

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About the Author

I'm a writer and mental health advocate with a heart for therapeutic storytelling. I use my voice to explore the quiet spaces between clarity and confusion, wholeness and becoming. Through my blog, Lita’s Lens, I offer reflections filtered through a therapeutic lens—always compassionate, always intentional.

My work lives at the intersection of vulnerability and purpose, and I show up with the hope that my truth might give someone else permission to speak theirs.

When I’m not writing, I’m usually recharging in stillness, curating cozy spaces, or helping others unpack their own stories with gentleness and care. This space is my offering—a quiet corner in a noisy world, where honesty feels like home.