I'm No Doormat!
The phrase “shit magnet” was something my mom and I used to describe the ongoing pattern of conflict that followed me throughout my life — moments where injustice surfaced, I confronted it with logic and discernment, and the people responsible were brought into the light and held accountable.
Because this has been my reality for as long as I can remember, it almost felt like God was setting me off to set things right in the world — to diffuse the wrongdoings of people that would have otherwise gone unseen.
After dealing with this over and over, it started to feel like a job or a duty assigned to me. And I talk to God about it. I tell Him I don’t want this shit magnet job anymore. It’s draining.
She understood the pattern. My dad sees it too.
And now that she’s gone, the words echo differently — less like humor and more like a shorthand for a way of moving through the world.
Trouble doesn’t find me because I chase it. It finds me because I don’t quietly absorb things that feel wrong.
This hasn’t been a phase or a reaction to any single moment. It’s always been part of my character — part of my integrity and my moral standing.
It’s simply not in me to lay down and take it. I’m no doormat. I don’t let people walk on me.
Not out of pride, but out of principle. If something doesn’t align with me morally or ethically — if it doesn’t align, period — it requires attention.
There’s a saying that came into my life through one of my mom’s closest friends, Deborah Rodriguez.
I remember when she passed and my mom and I attended her funeral. It was a hard time for my mother, and it was hard for me too.
I had spent a lot of time with Deborah when I was little. She wasn’t just my mom’s friend — she was part of my early world.
Deborah was one of the first real friends my mom made after we moved to a new town because of my dad’s work — someone she built a life around when she had to start over socially.
My mom learned a lot from her in the years before Deborah passed, and one phrase she used to say stayed with me from the time I was very young, maybe five years old:
The wheel that does not squeak doesn’t get oiled.
To me, that saying never just meant complaining to be heard. It meant that if I need help, I speak up. If something needs attention, I say it.
It means not standing there silently hoping things fix themselves. It means not being passive.
Sometimes you have to make waves. Sometimes you have to let someone know you need help. Sometimes you have to say plainly: this needs to be aligned.
That idea rooted itself early. I’ve always spoken up. I don’t let things slide by.
If something is bothering me, it requires immediate attention. Silence doesn’t fix it. It hides it.
Addressing it means stepping forward regardless of the outcome, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the unknown.
I think of it the way the body signals illness. Symptoms are flags — red flags your brain raises to tell you something is wrong.
Ignoring them doesn’t make the sickness disappear. It lets it spread. Conflict and discomfort work the same way.
They’re signals that something underneath needs care.
Pain is another identifier. When you burn yourself or feel a sharp ache, that sensation connects instantly in your brain as proof that something is wrong.
It teaches you to pull back. It helps you remember not to repeat whatever caused the damage.
Emotional and ethical discomfort function in a similar way. They mark boundaries.
They signal that something has crossed a line and needs to be addressed rather than ignored.
There’s a concept in biology called immune privilege — certain parts of the body, like the eye, suppress strong immune responses to protect delicate function.
It preserves vision, but it also means problems can exist quietly there for longer before the body reacts.
I sometimes think silence in human relationships works the same way. We suppress our response to protect surface harmony.
But when too much goes unaddressed, the cost accumulates beneath that calm exterior.
Most people are conditioned to preserve surface peace. They adapt.
They let small violations slide — disrespect, dishonesty, manipulation — because confrontation feels socially expensive.
Silence keeps the day intact. It maintains appearances. But silence also lets things fester beneath the surface.
I’ve never been able to pretend something is fine when it isn’t. Carrying that kind of pretending feels heavier than the discomfort of speaking up.
So I interrupt the pattern.
When tension appears, I step into it. Not to dominate or escalate, but to clarify.
I ask the question people are avoiding. I name the discomfort that everyone feels but no one wants to voice.
And the person who does that often becomes the visible source of the disturbance, even if the disturbance existed long before a word was spoken.
I end up wearing the shape of the conflict simply because I refuse to carry it quietly.
That refusal has consequences. It attracts friction.
Some people mistake directness for aggression. Others resent having a mirror held up.
But unresolved tension doesn’t disappear. It relocates.
It leaks into tone, distance, and resentment that hardens over time.
Left untouched, it becomes quieter but more corrosive.
I would rather face discomfort in the open, settle it honestly, and move forward clean.
I know it’s wise to pick your battles. Not every hill needs to be fought over.
But when I choose a battle, I don’t believe in backing down. I won’t roll over. I don’t lie down and take things.
What’s the point of being here if we don’t fight for what we believe in? What’s the point of life if we don’t even try?
I already wrestle with the thin line between life and death, and since I’m here, I’m not going to let things simply happen around me.
If I see injustice — whether it touches my loved ones or someone who happens to cross my path — I speak up.
For people without voices. For people who don’t know how to articulate what’s happening to them.
I won’t let it pass. When something truly matters, I sink my teeth into it and stay there until it’s addressed.
This isn’t about chasing confrontation or keeping score. It’s about refusing to normalize what feels fundamentally wrong.
When truth is bent or a boundary is crossed, something in me resists smoothing it over.
That resistance is what people sometimes mistake for trouble-seeking. In reality, it’s an intolerance for unresolved strain.
I interrupt situations, bring them into the light, and let them resolve.
Then life moves on — until another moment arrives that asks the same question again: absorb it quietly, or address it honestly.
I choose what I determine to be right. Every time.
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