I Said What I Said. I Just Should’ve Said It Better.

I Said What I Said. I Just Should’ve Said It Better.

I have spent most of my life learning one lesson the hard way:

It’s not always what you say. Sometimes, it’s how you say it.

And y’all, my delivery has gotten me in trouble more times than I could possibly count.

I think a lot of it goes back to how I grew up. My mom’s partner was a very harsh, very direct man. There wasn’t a whole lot of sugarcoating going on in our house. Actually, there was none.

He said what he meant, he meant what he said, and punishment was punishment.

I remember getting caught sneaking out of the house once—which is an entirely different story for another day—and my grandmother sent me to spend the summer with my mom and him.

They had a place at Lake Guerrero in Mexico.

Now, some kids got grounded.

Some kids lost their phone.

Not Tammy.

I was in Mexico with a damn machete.

We were cutting trees level with the water, and when we finished with that, we were cutting grass.

With. A. Machete.

So perhaps we have located at least a small portion of the origin story. 😂

I grew up around directness. Harshness. You screwed up, you heard about it. Nobody sat you down and said, “Let’s discuss how this decision made everyone feel.”

Nope.

Get your machete.

And whether I realized it or not, I carried some of that with me into adulthood.

When I get angry—especially when I feel like someone has done something wrong—I have historically had a terrible habit of saying exactly what is in my head at exactly the volume it arrives.

No filter.

No pretty packaging.

No soft little bow tied around it.

And here is what I’m finally learning:

You can have a completely valid point and destroy it with your delivery.

That one hurts me a little because I still believe that most of the time when I finally lose my shit, there is a REASON.

I didn’t just wake up on a Tuesday and decide, “You know what sounds fun today? Losing my damn mind.”

Usually something has been building.

And building.

And building.

Welton has a saying he uses all the time:

“Don’t poke the bear.”

For the record, I am the bear.

And apparently, according to my husband, you should not poke me. 😂

But here’s the problem with being the bear.

If somebody pokes you 27 times and you finally turn around and bite their damn arm off, everybody forgets about the first 27 pokes.

Now everybody is looking at the bear.

And I think I’ve done that more times in my life than I’d like to admit.

I’ve had situations where I genuinely believe I was right about what happened. I was right about what someone did. I was right to be hurt. I was right to be angry.

But then I delivered my message so badly that suddenly we weren’t talking about what they did anymore.

We were talking about how Tammy reacted.

And THAT is where I screwed myself.

Because my reaction became louder than the original problem.

I’ve also learned something else as I’ve gotten older: people really do not like being confronted with things about themselves that make them uncomfortable.

None of us do.

Sometimes the truth is embarrassing. Sometimes it requires us to admit we hurt somebody. Sometimes it means admitting we behaved badly. Sometimes it means looking at ourselves and saying, “Damn. I screwed that up.”

That is hard.

And sometimes, instead of doing that, people attack the person delivering the message.

You’re dramatic.

You’re crazy.

You’re too much.

You’re the problem.

Anything that shifts the attention away from what you’re actually saying.

But—and this is the part younger Tammy didn’t understand—I don’t get to control whether someone accepts the truth I give them.

I only get to control how I give it to them.

That’s the work I’m trying to do now.

Because I don’t want someone to be able to dismiss something important I’m saying simply because I said it terribly.

And I’ve said things terribly.

Lord knows I have.

Years ago, especially during my first marriage, anger and alcohol were a terrible combination for me. I’d get upset, I’d drink, somebody would poke the bear, and whatever tiny filter I had left would pack a suitcase and leave the building.

And yes, alcohol made my reactions bigger.

But here’s something I’ve had to admit to myself:

Alcohol didn’t invent the feelings.

The feelings were already there.

The anger was already there.

The hurt was already there.

The resentment was already there.

Alcohol just removed whatever restraint I had left.

I don’t drink nearly as much anymore, and guess what?

I still have opinions.

Imagine that. 😂

I still notice things.

I still get angry.

I still believe people should be held accountable for how they treat others.

And I still believe there are times when somebody needs to hear something they absolutely do not want to hear.

The difference is that I’m trying to learn how to say it in a way they might actually hear.

Because what is the point of speaking the truth if my delivery makes the other person stop listening?

That’s what I’m working on.

Not becoming quiet.

Not becoming a pushover.

Not pretending something doesn’t bother me just to keep everybody comfortable.

I’m learning that strength doesn’t always have to be loud.

I’m learning that being direct doesn’t require being cruel.

I’m learning that I can say, “What you did hurt me,” without setting the entire damn building on fire.

And most importantly, I’m learning that sometimes being right isn’t enough.

If I really want someone to hear me, I have to care about how the message lands.

I will probably always be direct.

I’ll probably always be a little spicy.

And Welton will probably continue warning people not to poke the bear.

But I’m working on becoming a bear with better communication skills. 😂

Because at 56 years old, I’ve finally figured out something I wish I’d understood decades ago:

You don’t have to change the truth to change the way you tell it.

And sometimes the difference between being dismissed and being heard is simply the delivery.

I said what I said.

I just should’ve said it better.