Then vs. Now: Growing Older With The Village

The Village - M. Night Shyamalan (2004)

Something interesting I've noticed as I get older. Some of the films you really loved at different times don’t necessarily stay the same when you periodically revisit them. Many of them actually grow with you. Or maybe it’s that you grow, and the film remains a mirror for both the person you were and the one you're becoming. For me, one of those films is M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village.

But watching it again as a middle-aged person who's seen a thing or two, I don't just see a strange remote place for people who valued the old ways anymore. I find it impossible to ignore the way this is really a story about fear, illusion, and what it costs to live an isolated life behind walls. And that shift in how I see the film says a lot about how I’ve changed, too.

Back Then: A Candlelit Fantasy

I first saw The Village in my late 20s. Back then, I was still having a lot of trouble finding a place for myself in the world where I felt like I fit and was beginning to wonder whether I ever would. 

However, I found a lot of solace in stories about bygone times and other places. Modern life felt way too loud for me back then. Too fast. Too many computers and complicated shortcuts. Too full of people who failed to see the beauty in slow living and simple things. That version of me thought it would be wonderful to go back in time and just... like... stay there.

So, The Village scratched more than one itch for me at the time. The rustic wooden homes, the flickering candles, the soft clothes in muted hues. The whole thing looked like it had been dipped in beeswax and nostalgia. 

And the elders’ decision to retreat from modern life made perfect sense to me. Of course, they wanted to preserve the “old ways.” Who wouldn’t want to escape noisy cars, rude neighbors, and relentless technology in favor of vegetables straight from the garden and long evenings under lantern light?

I wasn’t entirely thinking about manipulation, or lies, or what it costs to live inside a bubble built on fear. I was just thinking, "Hell yeah, sign me up for this village Airbnb (minus the monsters)!" I was still searching for refuge more than truth. A place that felt safe and intentional, even if it was also a little suffocating. 

And The Village gave me that fantasy.

Maybe the Problem Wasn't Me: Rethinking Anxiety When the World Really Is Too Much

There’s a really common narrative people love to circle back to when it comes to anxiety. Maybe you’ve heard it.

You get all worked up about something ahead of time, because you're sure it's going to be an absolutely shit show of an experience. A test, a job interview, or maybe just a party. Your brain immediately kicks into worst-case-scenario mode. You lose sleep, overprepare, and stress-eat something regrettable (or, in my case, you stop eating at all). And then the day comes, and… it’s fine. Or at least not nearly as bad as you feared.

And that’s when you get the backhanded pep talk. "See? It was just your anxiety talking. It’s never as bad as we think it’s going to be."

But here’s the thing. That’s never really been my experience.

For me, things usually are as bad as I expect, if not worse. And what’s more, I don’t get used to them. They don’t become less overwhelming over time. I just get better at hiding how they make me feel until I burn out, shut down, or start fantasizing about disappearing into the woods where no one can find me. If it gets bad enough, suicide might even start looking like a great way off the merry-go-round, so yeah. It really is that bad.

And if that resonates with you, I want to talk to you for a minute. Because something's seriously wrong with that whole setup.

When Your Brain Isn't Lying

I used to assume I must just be overreacting. That I needed to “build resilience” or “get out of my comfort zone” more often, just like my mother used to say when she'd get disgusted with me. And I tried. For years. 

I pushed through school even though the noise, the pressure, and the constant need to perform left me raw and exhausted. I took (and kept) jobs that drained me daily because I had no other choice. I tried to do the socially expected things — like have a wedding to which other people were invited, make small talk, keep up appearances — and I hated every minute of it. I hated it all so much, I frequently found myself wishing I were dead, just so I wouldn't have to do it anymore.

And through it all, I kept waiting for that moment people talk about. The part where you realize it wasn’t so bad after all. 

That moment never came.

Because for people like me — people who are sensitive, anxious, maybe neurodivergent in ways they don’t even fully understand — our brains aren’t always wrong. We’re not catastrophizing or "being dramatic," as my mother always used to like to call it. We’re predicting.

The overstimulation, the exhaustion, the inevitable emotional hangover when it all eventually slips sideways? We saw it coming because we already know how much it takes out of us. This isn’t “just anxiety.” It’s lived experience telling us what we can expect because we've already been there before.

Normal Is a Lie: Choose Yourself Instead

Life's taught me a lot of hard lessons over the years, but in my case, one of the most important ones was also one of the hardest to learn. It's that people are allowed to be disabled and to have limits. And they shouldn't feel the need to put themselves in the hospital trying to prove otherwise.

I spent an embarrassingly large chunk of my life gaslighting myself –– about my autism, my anxiety, my agoraphobia, my occasional run-ins with depression –– because that’s what I was taught to do growing up. My parents didn't "believe" in disability, especially anything mental. They thought the only thing worse than struggling with your internal wiring, brain chemistry, or mental health was admitting that you were. 

And the absolute queen mother of all cardinal sins? Expecting others to help you or otherwise reasonably accommodate you because of a disability, documented or otherwise. 

So, when I’d reach a breaking point — mentally, physically, emotionally — I didn’t rest. I didn’t ask for help. Instead, I doubled down and smiled harder. I forced myself to push through, assuring myself that everyone goes through this. Then I'd fall into a depression (sometimes complete with suicidal ideation) when I couldn’t “just get over it” or magically keep up with everyone else.

But the system applauded. Friends nodded approvingly, telling me I was “so strong” and so “inspiring.” And as long as none of the cracks were showing on the surface, making them look bad, my family approved, as well. Meanwhile, I was falling apart. Quietly, invisibly, and possibly even permanently.

And the worst part of it all was that I thought I was doing something noble –– the "right" thing. I thought keeping myself in a perpetual state of self-destruction was proof that I was tough and capable. That I had value. It took me way too long to understand what was truly happening to me underneath, and I don’t want that for you.

So let’s unpack a few things.

1. Disability isn't a character flaw

Disability — whether it’s physical, mental, neurological, or a complex cocktail of all three — isn’t a personality defect. It’s not a failure of willpower, a failure to try harder, or a sign you’re “less than.” It’s a condition, it's real, and it definitely shapes how you move through the world (sometimes drastically). Trying to pretend it doesn’t exist won’t make it disappear. If anything, it makes it worse, especially over time.

This world is built strictly for people who fit into a very specific box when it comes to functionality. If you don't fit comfortably inside that box, and you won't, the system doesn't adjust to make room for you. It tells you to contort yourself and force yourself to fit instead. It will demand that you hustle harder, be more positive, and “not let it hold you back.” 

It's up to you to advocate for and accommodate yourself however you can.

And accommodating yourself is not the same thing as giving up. It’s how you survive and stay upright while living within a system that was never designed with you in mind. And, in many cases, it’s the only way you’ll have enough energy left to actually live, instead of just perform.

What Happens When You Outgrow Your Own Mythology

There’s a strange kind of grief that arrives when the story you once told about yourself — your guiding myth — no longer fits. Especially when it wasn’t just any story, but the story. The one you poured into poems or blogs or old journal entries by the bucketful. The one that helped you survive, make sense of the chaos, and eventually form a self that felt real.

It starts the day you finally go back and revisit it, usually through old personal writing or artwork. You re-read the essay, re-open the journal, pull up the old blog post. And it hits you. You don’t live there anymore.

The Myths We Write Ourselves Into

Whether we think we do or not, we all have personal myths. They're the stories we cobble together to explain to others (and sometimes ourselves) who we are, why we are, and what we think we’re made of. And they can be based on memories, emotions, trauma, and whatever scraps of meaning we can find to sew the whole mess together. 

Although your mileage may vary, my personal myths always sounded a lot like:

• "I'm the forthright, loyal person who always puts others first."
• "I'm the survivor who's been through a lot and stubbornly survived."
• "I am the misunderstood artist no one ever truly sees."

Those myths can be empowering or limiting. Often, they’re both. Even painful myths can be strangely comforting when they give us structure, identity, or purpose in a world that so often leaves us feeling like we have none. They help us navigate the world. They help us feel known, at least to ourselves.

But what I didn't realize way back when I wrote my personal mythology in the first place is that myths are meant to evolve. And when they don’t, they start to limit us instead of holding us. 

When the Old Archetypes Stop Fitting

I recently re-read something I wrote about four years ago or so –– a Medium essay called All the Dead Darlings I Used to Be. I wrote it for a contest going on at the time, and although it never picked up traction (and certainly didn't win the contest), it remains one of my favorite pieces of writing I've ever shared online.

It was raw and emotional and beautifully true at the time. A kind of tribute to some of the past selves I’d shed over the years –– the Dead Darlings, as I called them. Each one named (after their ages at the time) and carefully laid to rest. Each one a little story I’d carried with me over the years, each one a chapter in the big, moth-eaten bible of me.

7 Things I've Promised Myself (and Sometimes Forget)

I'm realizing that I’ve made a lot of silent promises to myself over the years. Some were whispered in moments of grief, others after quiet triumphs I didn’t care to tell anyone about at the time. They weren't anything serious or formal, but they still mattered. 

They were the small, private agreements I made with myself to survive, stay true to what I believe in, and to become someone I can be proud to be in the future. Some of these I kept without even realizing it. Others I forgot completely until life reminded me, sometimes with a little more force than I'd have liked. 

But lately I’ve been feeling the pull to remember these promises. To sit with them, to look at the shape of the life they’ve helped to build over the years, and maybe recommit to a few that have fallen by the wayside.

1. I promised myself I'd always write, even if no one was reading

Over the years, writing has been so much more than just a hobby or even a profession to me. It's also how I survive, process things, and connect with parts of myself that don’t respond the same way to anything else. 

That's what writing was about for me when I was still just a kid. And although it's not always easy to balance that with client deadlines, it's important to me to stay in touch with why I originally wanted to be a writer in the first place.

2. I promised I wouldn't shrink to make other people more comfortable

Because I’ve done it before. We all have. And it never leads anywhere good. I don't owe other people anything, certainly not the exact type of relationship they'd like to have with me. But I owe myself a few things, especially wholeness. That means making space for the less palatable parts of myself, along with everything else.

A Soft Thing Worth Protecting: Reflections on the Value of Empathy

As a relatively private person, there's a lot of myself I don't openly share. Not because those parts are shameful or broken, but because they’re delicate and too often misunderstood.

One of those parts has always been my sense of empathy. That's the part of me that has always listened too closely, noticed too much, and felt absolutely everything all the way down to the bone. It’s also the part I’ve learned to hide, shield, and sometimes even deny to survive in a world that increasingly treats gentleness as a liability.

But here’s what no one tells you. Kindness and justice aren’t actually opposites. Neither are softness and strength. 

The Myth of "Too Sensitive"

From an early age, I've been the kind of person who cries over movies and senses shifts in people’s moods long before they actually open their mouths and speak. Sometimes I deeply felt guilt or grief that weren't even my own, but I was also astute enough to realize that other people didn't have these intense reactions to things. 

For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me. I believed people when they told me I was “too sensitive" and took things “too personally.” I didn't yet understand that what they were really saying was, "Your softness makes me uncomfortable, and your empathy holds up a mirror I’m not ready to look into." 

And sometimes what they meant was closer to, "Your brand of softness makes it harder for me to control you, and I don't like that." Narcissists and opportunists have always been drawn to my openness and kindness. But when they tried to take advantage of me, I saw through it. If they hurt me, there were consequences instead of a truly clean slate, especially as I got older and more self-aware. 

Narcissists, abusers, and opportunists make life hard, so I eventually did what so many empathetic people do. I buried my empathy and built walls around my kindness. I learned to present something sharper, more prickly, and harder to reach — a version of me people were less likely to exploit, manipulate, or test.

But I never truly lost my softness. I just hid it behind the door until I figured out what to do with it. And I eventually came to understand that it was never the problem or even a shortcoming. It was actually the part of me most worth protecting all along.

Things I Know, Even When I'm Quiet: A Litany

You'll never catch me saying that I know something until I've applied it somehow and proven to myself that it's probably true. Before that, it's simply secondhand information –– likely valuable if it came from a trustworthy source, but not absolutely. 

And even once something makes it into my mental "I know this" file, I still don't necessarily shout it right out for the world to hear. Instead, I let these things settle into my gut and grow smooth, like rocks at the bottom of a riverbed. 

No one knows they're there, but they still serve a sort of quiet purpose. They're anchors that keep me grounded in a saner version of the world where I always know what's real, even if no one else around me does. Silence doesn't make those things any less true. 

I know when someone is trying to manage me with compliments. I know when they’re dancing a stilted jig around the perimeter of a truth they don’t want to articulate. I know when someone's surprised (and more than a little bothered) that I don't fit comfortably into whatever labeled box they've decided to place me in. 

I register these things before I smile and say something polite –– not because I feel polite, but because I know it's expected of me and need to buy time while I wait for the next conversational exit. 

I know what it feels like to walk into a room and read the people in it before a single word is said. The tone of the air, the undercurrents of tension and the way tension always smells like carrots. Perhaps even unspoken resentment. I used to think everyone did this –– figured out the lay of the land before deciding how to proceed by scanning the energy in question. But then I realized almost no one does, except other people who simply don't mention it. 

I also learned that some people hate that this is something I can (and will) do. They don't think they should have to pass a vibe check before I'll interact with them.

I know what burnout feels like, not just physically but spiritually — the ache of having too many people need things from you while you’re scraping the bottom of your own well. I know the hollow feeling that comes when you're doing something that should be heartfelt out of obligation instead of devotion.