I’m Not a Red Flag, I’m Just a Person

...a short history of being perceived as a warning sign.

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There’s a fine line between self-awareness and self-destruction, and I think I live on it rent-free.

Am I a walking red flag? I worry that even asking the question suggests the answer is yes—like saying it out loud turns me into a cautionary tale.

Here’s the thing about red flags: we usually find them waving in other people’s yards. But occasionally, someone will squint at you from across the room, or worse, in a dating app, and go, “Oh, you’re one of those.” And that’s when you start spiraling, wondering if every questionable choice you’ve ever made (or lack thereof) is less of an eccentric quirk and more of a formal warning label.

I’ve been called a red flag before. Well, not directly, of course—no one’s ever been so bold. But you can feel it in the pauses, in the polite-but-concerned “Oh, really?” when you casually admit that you once moved across the world because of a gut feeling—or maybe it was a hormone-fueled fantasy that life is a Nora Ephron movie, and you’re just one monologue away from everything making sense. (Spoiler: it didn’t, and I’m still waiting for the monologue.)

But let’s examine the evidence, shall we?

• I’ve quit jobs without a backup plan.

• I’ve spent an alarming amount of time Googling “best places to start over” with the intensity of someone searching for flights, not answers.

• I have no romantic relationship to show for my efforts, though I do have a long and committed relationship with overthinking.

• My sensitivity levels are high enough that I once cried watching a pigeon struggle against the wind.

• I refer to my dog as my child in a way that suggests there was a birth certificate involved.

**Obviously, these are just the surface-level ones. The rest are between me, my therapist, and a very concerned journal.

I’ve made poor choices—capital P, capital C. But poor choices are not red flags. They’re not even flags. They’re detours. Scenic routes. Occasionally scenic routes through questionable neighborhoods, sure, but I digress.

You see, the problem with red-flag culture (apart from its inherent laziness) is that it assumes mistakes are signs of dysfunction rather than evidence of effort. You’re too independent? Red flag. You’re too emotional? Red flag. You once had bangs? RED FLAG. The subtext is always the same: Your humanity is showing. How dare you?

And yet, actual red flags exist. Lying, emotional manipulation, treating people as disposable—these are not charming quirks. They’re the kind of behaviors that belong in a handbook titled How to Ruin Lives and Feel Nothing About It. But forgetting to text back? Changing your mind? Having a breakdown over the state of your life while eating dry cereal out of the box? Not a red flag. That’s just called being a person.

I refuse to believe that my lived experience—messy, imperfect, occasionally humiliating—makes me a hazard to anyone’s emotional health. If anything, it makes me interesting at dinner parties. Because what’s the alternative? A life spent wrapped in bubble wrap, meticulously avoiding mistakes, and dying with a tombstone that reads, “Made zero waves, mildly liked by all”? No, thank you.

Mistakes are proof of life. They’re what you collect when you’re busy trying, and failing, and trying again. Quitting that job without a backup plan taught me resilience—and also how to budget like my life depended on it, because it did. Moving across the world taught me that location won’t fix you, but it will give you new places to cry about the same problems.

The irony is that the people most likely to call you a red flag are often the ones holding onto their own unexamined baggage like a prized collection they have no intention of unpacking. But this isn’t about them. This is about embracing the mess of your own existence without apology or shame. It’s about saying, Yes, I have baggage, but at least I’m rolling it along with me instead of leaving it in storage to rot.

So, no, I’m not a red flag. I’m not even a cautionary tale. I’m a person—a deeply flawed, often confused, occasionally brilliant person—figuring it out as I go. Which, if you ask me, is a far better look than pretending to have it all together.

And if someone looks at me—at my mistakes, my detours, my very human imperfections—and sees a red flag? That’s on them. I’m not here to be their green light.

File Under: ‘Regret in Theory, Excellent Story in Practice.’

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—The Ash Files—Where life’s unexpected moments get filed away—sometimes neatly, sometimes under “figure it out later.” From writer/creator ASH, expect weekly musings, honest stories, and a reminder that no one has life entirely figured out [least of all me].✨

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