Yes, I’m the Red Flag. No, I’m Not Sorry.

Listen. I never claimed to be the green flag. I’m not the peaceful meadow or the healing hands or the gentle soul that makes you want to settle down and start journaling about gratitude. I’m the red flag on the side of the road that flaps in the wind and whispers,

“turn back or buckle up, baby.”

And yet, somehow, people still ignore the warning signs and come right in. Bold choice. I respect it.

Do I come with emotional walls stacked higher than my goals? Absolutely. Do I tend to shut down instead of communicate? For sure. Is my idea of vulnerability saying “lol” after revealing deep childhood trauma? Without a doubt. I’ve got more flight responses than a haunted house and I vanish faster than a group chat after you say “can we talk?”

But I’m also electric. Complicated. Intense in the kind of way that leaves a mark. I’m not easy to love, but I’m unforgettable. And that’s what makes me dangerous.

You want safe? Go find a Pinterest board in human form. You want real? Stay, but understand this: I’m learning how to soften. How to stay. How to stop confusing detachment with strength and chaos with charm. And even though I stumble, a lot, I’ve got people who see me, red flags and all.

My best friend. My safe space. The woman who clocked me as a walking red flag from the jump and still decided I was worth keeping around. She knew I was emotionally avoidant before I did. She’s seen me spiral, disappear, get cold, get messy, say “I’m fine” when I’m clearly one flat tire away from a breakdown, and she still shows up. Every. Single. Time.

She calls me out with love. She holds me down without trying to fix me. She’s the rare kind of human who doesn’t flinch when you hand her your broken pieces. She just holds them with both hands and says,

“You want glue or glitter?

She reminds me that I’m not just the damage. I’m the comeback. I’m the growth. I’m the hurricane and the rebuild.

So yeah. I’m the red flag. But I’m the kind that comes with loyalty, deep love, wild laughter, and a heart that, while guarded, still beats so damn loud for the people I care about. I may come with baggage, but I’ll carry yours too. I may push people away, but when I stay, I love like it’s my last day on Earth.

Being a red flag doesn’t mean being a villain. Sometimes it just means you’ve been through hell, made a home in the fire, and now you’re learning to let someone in without burning them.

And if someone can’t handle that?

Then they were never built for this kind of heat.

I’ve been the girl people tried to “fix.” The one they thought they could mold into something easier, quieter, less much. And let me tell you, there’s nothing lonelier than someone loving the version of you they created in their head while ignoring the one standing right in front of them. I’m not here to be made palatable. I’m here to be real. Messy, moody, and fucking magnetic.

But my best friend? She never asked me to shrink. She never flinched when I got quiet or sarcastic or weirdly detached. She never tried to shove me into a box marked “stable and serene.” She just let me be and reminded me, over and over again, that I was still lovable in the chaos. That I didn’t have to earn her support by performing stability. That I could be a walking contradiction and she’d still stand ten toes down, no matter how many times I ghosted the group chat or spiraled into overthinking.

She’s the one who shows up with food when I haven’t eaten, who laughs at my unhinged rants instead of judging them, who says

“I’ve got you”

and means it. Not just when I’m fun. Not just when I’m thriving. But when I’m cold, messy, distant, and trying to pretend like I don’t need anyone.

It’s wild how healing it is to have even one person like that.

Because when you’re the red flag, you learn to expect abandonment. You prepare for it. You pre-abandon people before they can do it first. But my best friend? She stayed. And in doing that, she taught me that being a red flag doesn’t mean I’m broken or bad—it just means I’m in progress.

And yeah, I’m still a little unhinged. Still spicy, still a flight risk when I feel things too deeply, still a master at building walls with sarcasm and dark humor. But I’m working on it. Slowly. Loudly. Messily.

And honestly? If that’s not growth, I don’t know what is.

So here’s to being the red flag; but the kind with depth, loyalty, a soft core buried under armor, and a best friend who makes the chaos feel a little less lonely.

If you’re like me—flawed, fierce, and still figuring it out—this is your reminder: you’re not too much. You’re just not for people who can’t handle real. And that’s their problem, babe. Not yours.