There is power in simply realizing when something has nothing to do with you. There is grace in allowing the absence of your contention to be your tactical offensive maneuver, in letting your silence suffice.

It is a tiresome phrase by now, but the only thing anyone can control is his or her response to what happens. I believe in steering the ship—in as much as it can be directed—but something, someone will always blindside me. There is always a point at which I will be out of my depth. Sometimes this point is realizing that someone quite simply doesn’t like me (or worse, doesn’t respect me).

There is power in my choosing to let that be what it is. Less easy, perhaps, is the realization that someone pities me, or has some other misconception that is fueling their dislike (far better to be disliked for noble reasons), but I have disciplined myself to some degree in this area, too. It is not up to me to correct anyone’s perception or change anyone’s mind. I am not that important. Even God refrains from such manipulation, and if ever someone was egregiously misunderstood, it is God.

In the past, I have spent years trying to change the scope of a person’s heart. Ultimately, it was the surest course toward total division—my final division from the person whose mind I wanted to change—more importantly, more devastatingly, it divided me from myself.

Recently, I was part of a group discussion about marriage proposals (how they happened) and engagement rings (how they were chosen). A few people in the group mentioned selecting their rings online by way of a popular Web site. I brightened, having heard of the site. One of the women asked me if I’d ever purchased a ring from the site. I had not, I told her, but had “designed” a ring via the interactive feature.

At that moment another girl piped up and said with something akin to mild wonder “You always say the most shameful things—then I realize ‘hey, I’ve done the same thing!’”

My response to this comment was one of legitimate curiosity. I told her that I hadn’t even considered that this was something shameful—that I’d simply wanted to know what all the terms (emerald cut, princess cut, square cut, baguette) translated to, visually.

She self-corrected. “I meant, embarrassing…”

I know this woman meant no harm. It was a moment of unchecked candor. It may sound harsh, but I was there. I saw her face and heard her tone. It was not malicious. But between this disclosure about once designing an engagement ring (sans fiancé) and other things she’s gleaned from my life by other throwaway comments I must have made, she’s made an assessment. And I’m not interested in changing it. I am content to let her find me pathetic, not because I agree with her, but because the dye is cast. I have been categorized and that is that. I know this girl doesn’t give me much conscious thought—for good or bad—her reaction to my anecdote probably took her as much by surprise as it did me.

It is at a time like that, at this point in my life, when I understand the absolute value of knowing who I am, being convinced of that. I don’t have to go on an internal tear about this. I don’t have to do any campaigning (there would be no end to this if I began it).

But…

this situation reinforced another lesson. Thoughtless sharing, or too much anyway, is often the instrument of regret. There’s something to be said for being inscrutable.