Ink & Shadows: The Words of Osiris j Reapor

It happened yesterday, and I’m still sitting with it—the sting of knowing I hurt someone I care about. A friend.

She’s a gifted writer. Her words are rich and raw, threaded with emotion and insight. But she doesn’t really see it. She often talks down about her own work, doubts herself, minimizes her brilliance. And that breaks my heart.

We were talking about her writing, and she shared some of those self-critical thoughts. I wanted to lift her up, to encourage her. But the words I chose came out wrong. I said something like, “You have no confidence in yourself.”

What I meant was, “You’re better than you think you are. You’re holding yourself back.” But what she heard was something hurtful. Something harsh. And when she told me that, a trauma response kicked in. Instead of offering a true apology, I got defensive. I tried to explain what I meant, to reassure her—but all that did was deepen the wound.

Then another friend, who was part of the conversation, added gently that she’s felt the same from me before. That even when she knows I mean well, sometimes it comes off like I’m putting her down.

That landed hard. Because it’s not the first time I’ve heard this. And the truth is, when I care deeply, I often speak with intensity. I want to make sure people hear me—really hear me. But in trying to be clear, I can come off as sharp. In trying to lift, I can press too hard.

It doesn’t come from a place of cruelty. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t cause harm.

To the person I hurt: I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Your writing is extraordinary. You are extraordinary. And I see you—even when you struggle to see yourself.

To the friend who spoke truthfully but kindly: thank you. That honesty means more than you know.

I’m learning to slow down. To choose my words with more care. To hold space instead of filling it. This is one of those moments where growth doesn’t feel graceful—but it’s necessary.

I want to do better. I will do better.