Creatively Unfiltered Grace

An Open Letter to Insensitive People

If I were writing a letter to insensitive people, this is what I would say:

Check yourself before you wreck yourself.

Your words, your actions—they carry weight. They can have catastrophic effects on so many people, even when you don’t realize it. I’ve been on the receiving end of ignorance and cruelty more times than I can count, and I’m here to tell you: it’s disrespectful. Period.

They asked me, “Are you pregnant?” And at that time, I wasn’t. Like, what the hell are you asking me that for? I’m just fat, you know? But even then, I didn’t even know I had fibroids growing inside me—big, aggressive fibroids invading my uterus, expanding my abdomen, changing my body without me knowing the full extent of it. Like, what the fuck even? Who the hell are you to assume something so personal without knowing the truth? Why break someone down with your ignorance and insensitivity?

And then there’s my own family. My cousin—someone who’s supposed to have my back—went and laughed behind my back about the fact that someone asked me if I was pregnant. She never once asked me, “Are you okay?” “How are you really doing?” Nothing. Just laughing like it was a joke.

And my aunt. She didn’t know the full story of my hysterectomy. She thought I’d gone for surgery to remove the fibroids—yes, they took those out—but she didn’t know they took out my entire womb. When she finally confronted me in a shop, she said, “I’m so sorry. I never messaged you. Is the fibroids out? Are you okay?”

I had to tell her: My womb is out.

What the fuck even, man?

I have no time for people like that.

This kind of insensitivity—it’s not just rude, it’s cruel. It hurts. It isolates. It breaks down whatever strength you’re trying to hold onto.

And for those of you who think sick leave or major surgery is a holiday: wake the hell up. When I had my partial hysterectomy, it wasn’t a vacation. It was major surgery—cutting through muscle, removing parts of my body invaded by fibroids that threatened my ability to bear children, that threatened my health.

But people don’t seem to get it. I still get the question, “Are you recovered now?” How can I be? It’s been almost three months, and recovery from a hysterectomy is brutal—physically and mentally. You can’t just snap your fingers and be back to normal. It takes time. It takes patience. And you have to respect that, or you risk wrecking yourself all over again.

Yet some people ask as if it’s no big deal, expecting you to “snap back.” No. Fuck that.

The other day, at work, there’s this guy who’s just so immature. You’re working hard, focused on your job, and he comes over and shakes my chair—with me sitting on it. I politely told him, “Please don’t do that. My body is sensitive.” But he shrugged it off like it was nothing.

I even explained how every bump in the car hurts after surgery, how I have to use a pillow between my seat belt and my stomach just to protect myself from the shock. But he ignored me. I had to escalate it because he just kept doing it.

Do you know what that feels like? Having your own body screaming at you, telling you, “Calm down, rest,” but some idiot keeps pushing you? That’s barbaric. That’s pure disrespect.

And it doesn’t stop there. I was on sick leave for five whole weeks, going through hell and back. During that time, my bank card was almost scammed—nearly stolen from me. Imagine that, nearly losing money I didn’t even have, while I’m fighting to get better.

Then I come back to work and people say, “You’re not being inclusive. You’re not participating.”

I’m not here to make you feel better. I was out for five weeks. I have shit to catch up on. My boss? A toxic, results-obsessed manager who doesn’t care about how hard I’ve been fighting to just get through the day.

And now you’re telling me I’m not being friendly? That I’m not being inclusive?

Fuck you.

Grow the fuck up.

Insensitive people, you’re part of the problem.

You are adults. Act like it. If you have issues, get help—therapy, counseling, whatever it takes—because your lack of empathy reveals your own brokenness.

Stop tearing people down. Stop making insensitive comments. Stop acting like the world owes you explanations for someone else’s pain or body.

The world is aching because love is lacking. Because people don’t give each other space to heal, breathe, or just be human.

Empathy is not weakness. Compassion is not a luxury. They are essentials.

If you don’t understand that, then you don’t understand people.

Insensitive people, wake the hell up.

It’s barbaric.

And it has to stop.

So yes, I am un-apologetically a Jesus person.

Because insensitive people made me draw closer to my Jesus. Because only my Jesus would tell me, “My daughter, you are fine. You’re going to be okay. I will walk with you. I will send the right people to support you, love you, and be there for you.”

My therapist came to the hospital to check on me—not charging me for that session, just coming as a person who cares. She even contacted my doctor to see how she could help me process this journey.

Even in the darkest moments, the Lord was there, sending me the right people.

That’s why I’m a Jesus person—because Jesus sees you, Jesus loves you, Jesus walks with you through the storms, if you just let Him.

Even in the good times, He’s there.

And that is why I choose Him.

Because sometimes, insensitive people leave you no choice but to hold onto something greater.

And that’s the truth.

I hope this letter—and my story—helps somebody out there realize they are not alone. This is part of why I started this blog: to be a presence, to be there for people, to grow a community where we can say, “You’re not the only one going through these things.”

I have another blog, but it’s not anonymous. For this space, I chose to stay anonymous for now because I believe some stories need that kind of safety. Maybe in the future, I’ll share more openly, but for now, this is a place where people can find honest, raw connection without judgment.

Because the truth is, some people are very insensitive, broken, and lacking love. But there are also those who work through their pain, who understand, who are present, who show up—not just in words, but in real, meaningful ways.

And that presence—the love and understanding we offer one another—is what helps us heal.

That’s the kind of community I want to build here.