Too Deep for Them
You cannot convince someone to understand the ocean when they have only learned to swim in shallow water.
Somewhere between the fourth hour of explaining why a piece of ambient instrumental music made you cry and the third time they replied with a thumbs up emoji, a quiet, horrifying realization sets in: you are attempting to dock a cruise ship in a birdbath.
It is one of the grand, absurd tragedies of the human condition that we possess an endless capacity to mistake a lack of depth for a lack of exposure. We whisper our soul’s most intricate, terrifyingly beautiful blueprints across a dinner table, convinced that if we just find the right words, the right inflection, or the right lighting, the person staring back at us will suddenly undergo a miraculous tectonic shift. We believe we can love someone into a bigger pair of lungs so they can breathe the thin, heady air of our inner world.
It doesn’t work. You cannot teach a goldfish to appreciate the abyssal plain, no matter how tenderly you hold the bowl.
Playing a Symphony to a Kazoo Enthusiast
Consider the sheer mechanics of it. You bring a five act tragedy, a sprawling museum of existential dread, hyper specific childhood nostalgia, and wildly nuanced philosophy to a conversation. They bring a lukewarm mug of instant coffee and a desire to talk about traffic.
So what do you do? Because you care, and because ego is a sneaky, persistent bastard, you double down. You become an emotional missionary. You translate your symphony into a kazoo solo, hoping that if they like the melody, they will eventually ask to read the full orchestral score. You hold open the heavy, hand carved oak doors of your psyche, inviting them inside, only to watch them drop their wet umbrella on the carpet, glance at the ceiling, and ask if you have any Netflix recommendations.
It is exhausting. Worse than that, it is humiliating. Not because they are bad people, let’s clear that up immediately. The tragic comedy here is not that you are a misunderstood genius and they are an uncultured villain. The tragedy is simply a mismatch of internal architecture. Some people are beautifully built single story bungalows: cozy, functional, and sunny. You happen to be a gothic cathedral with subterranean catacombs and a ceiling that constantly leaks when it rains.
Expecting a bungalow to house a cathedral’s worth of reverberating organ music is not romantic. It is structural abuse.
Stop Throwing Boulders Into a Puddle
There is a subtle, dangerous arrogance in believing you can expand another human being’s soul through sheer force of adoration. We like to think of ourselves as patient, benevolent guides, holding a lantern up to the dark corners of someone else’s mind. But if we are being painfully honest, it is often just a sophisticated form of control.
When you love someone into appreciating your depth, you are asking them to become a person they never claimed to be. You are staring at a tranquil, shallow pond and throwing heavy boulders into it, expecting it to suddenly reveal a hidden oceanic trench. All you end up with is muddy water and a sore back.
Capacity is not a liquid you can pour into someone until their borders stretch. Capacity is a container forged by curiosity, suffering, introspection, and a strange, innate appetite for the dark. If someone does not have the stomach for the drop, no amount of safety harnesses or gentle encouragement from you will make them enjoy the cliff.
Origami Souls and the Slow Suicide of Self-Editing
The real danger doesn’t lie in their inability to meet you; it lies in what you do to yourself while waiting for them to catch up.
To make the mismatch bearable, you begin a slow, desperate process of self editing. You fold your complex, origami like thoughts into tight, manageable little squares. You stop bringing up the existential panic that hits you at 3:00 AM. You censor the weird, brilliant, unhinged metaphors that make your mind such a wild place to live, replacing them with small talk and agreeable nods. You trade your ocean for a puddle, just so both of you can stand in it without anyone drowning.
And for a while, it feels like harmony. But a contained storm isn’t peace; it’s just a room waiting to explode. Eventually, the water rises. You realize that in your quest to make them feel comfortable, you have starved yourself of the exact thing that makes you feel alive: being truly, terrifyingly seen.
Stop Selling Your Ocean at a Discount
So where does that leave us, the ridiculous, heavy-hearted over-thinkers of the world?
It leaves us with a quiet, liberating surrender.
Accepting someone’s limits isn’t an act of defeat; it’s the ultimate act of respect. It means allowing the sun-drenched, shallow-water people to exist without demanding they dive into the dark with you. It means enjoying the surface for what it is: warm, light, easy, without pretending it’s the bottom of the world.
More importantly, it means rescuing your own depth from the bargain bin. Your intricate inner life is not a sales pitch, nor is it a project that requires a partner’s approval to exist. The right people won’t need a translator, a map, or a gentle push to stand beside you in the deep end. They will simply look at the dark, swirling water, take a deep breath, and jump right in beside you. They won’t even ask for a towel when they do.
May your weekend be delightfully unedited, wonderfully deep, and full of people who don't need a map to navigate your world.
Have a lovely weekend everyone!
Love always,
Chris🫶🏽
That’s why i have my Substack profile because very few to almost none around me have that capacity or appetite.
I have no surrendered and try enjoying accompanying them in the way the I experience the world. I keep my depth for my journal and my Substack.
They balance out my lack of easy going attitude, sometimes rarely, i balance out their lack of depth. We try meeting each other in the middle.
Beautiful essay!
I loved the distinction between accepting someone’s limits and shrinking yourself to fit inside them…The part about turning your symphony into a kazoo solo was painfully accurate…Thank you.