What If I'm The Red Flag

On chaos, self-awareness, and the slow art of becoming less of a liability.

Maybe it’s not them.
Maybe it’s me.
Maybe I’m the caution tape stretched across the street,
the flashing light you’re supposed to notice
but don’t…
until you’re already ankle-deep in the wreckage.

Maybe I’m the hurricane you invite in
because you like the sound of the wind
until it tears the roof off your house.

Maybe I’m the way your stomach tightens
for no good reason,
the way you start sleeping with one eye open,
the way you start asking,
"Was it always this loud in here?"
when it’s just me
existing
a little too hard.

I used to think red flags were things other people gave off.
You know… major infractions.
Obvious stuff.
Gaslighting. Stonewalling. Heavy, toxic shit.

But…
What if being a red flag isn’t about committing moral crimes?
What if it’s about being a walking contradiction that someone else mistakes for a blueprint?

It’s telling someone,
"I’m emotionally independent,"
and then texting them seventeen TikToks in a row because you just had a thought.

It’s saying,
"I value communication,"
and then silently resenting them for not telepathically knowing you’re upset.

It’s declaring,
"I’m low maintenance,"
while low-key expecting them to remember every single thing you ever said and notice when you’re spiraling based on the subtle shift in your emoji usage.

And what if this is me?
Flashing red… in a beautiful shade of denial.

There are days I look at myself
like a well-meaning arsonist.
I didn’t mean to burn down the house.
I just wanted a little more light.

I didn’t mean to overwhelm you with my bigness.
I just didn’t know how to shrink anymore without bleeding.

I didn’t mean to scare you with my honesty.
I thought honesty was the thing that kept people close.
(It's not always.
Sometimes it’s the thing that shows them the emergency exit.)

Self-awareness is a hell of a drug.

You realize you’re a red flag mid-spiral,
and instead of changing course,
you start narrating it like it’s a live TED Talk.

"Hi everyone, today we’ll be discussing how my avoidant attachment style is currently fighting my fear of abandonment in a gladiator match inside my brain."

"Slide one: Why I feel personally betrayed when someone takes longer than seven minutes to compliment me on my hair, outfit, sense of humor, or literally anything else.”

"Slide two: Why I self-isolate immediately afterward to punish them and myself, creating a drama cycle no one asked for."

It’s a beautiful disaster, really.
Educational.
Inspirational, even.
(If you squint)

I used to think that admitting you were a red flag made you less of one.
That if I confessed early…
"Hey, I have issues! Haha! I'm super intense and slightly feral but, like, suuuuper self-aware about it!"
- that it would somehow neutralize the risk.

Spoiler: it doesn't.

Self-awareness without action is just performance art.
An interpretive dance of dysfunction.
A full-length Broadway show called "Oops, I Did It Again, But At Least I Can Name My Triggers."

Ouch.

Sometimes being a red flag isn’t about being bad.
It’s about being unfinished.
Unpracticed at slowness.
Unskilled at breathing through intimacy without making it a crime scene.

It’s about not knowing what to do with good things
so you start poking holes in them,
waiting to see how fast they’ll leak.

It’s about carrying a survival kit labeled “RUN BEFORE THEY DO”
and pretending it's just a fashionable accessory.

There’s a certain type of beautiful, broken person
who will see your flashing red lights
and think it’s a welcome sign.
Because they have matching scars.
Because they recognize the chaos in your eyes.

They’ll say, "Same."
And it will feel right.

Until it doesn’t.
Until your chaos and their chaos start elbowing each other at the dinner table.
Until the thing that made you magnetic
becomes the thing that makes you unbearable.

There’s another type of person who sees your red and politely walks away.
You’ll want to chase them.
You’ll want to throw explanations like confetti:

"Wait! It’s not as bad as it looks!"
"I can explain the fireworks coming out of my mouth!"
"This isn’t a flaw! It’s a personality trait!"

But some people don’t need to stick around and study the wreckage.
Some people know
you don’t have to survive every storm you stumble into.

(And maybe you can love them from a distance for teaching you that.)

The worst part of being the red flag is when you start thinking it's your whole identity.

When you start wearing it like a badge:
"Look how messy I am. Look how hard I love. Look how much I bleed."

It’s romantic until it’s exhausting.

Until you realize
no one is coming to rescue you from your own chaos.
No one can love you into becoming a lighthouse
if you refuse to stop setting yourself on fire for warmth.

Maybe being the red flag isn’t a curse.
Maybe it’s just a starting point.

Maybe it’s the moment you realize you don’t want to be the test anymore.

You don’t want to be the person someone learns painful lessons through.

You want to be the place they rest.
The place you rest.

There’s something delicious
about seeing yourself clearly
without hatred.

Not flinching at your sharp edges.
Not excusing them either.

Just… witnessing them.
Learning where you start and where you slice.
Learning when to sit on your hands before you set another fire you’ll regret.

Maybe this is growth:
not becoming a perfect person,
but becoming someone who stops confusing intensity with intimacy.

Maybe it’s learning to hold your own fever without asking someone else to burn for it.

Maybe it’s looking at yourself,
truly looking,
and saying:

"I’m not a warning sign.
I’m just a human.
Learning how to be my own warmth,
instead of asking someone else to survive my weather."