“What you do speaks so loud that I cannot hear what you say” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

She hikes in an imaginary forest when she reaches an intersection. Two paths are before her. One veers to the left, the other to the right. The two routes are eerily similar with one major difference. The route to the left is blocked by a concrete barrier, yellow tape, orange cones, a “do not enter” sign, and warnings to remind trespassers, if caught, they will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

She pushes the tape aside, steps between the cones, and hops over the barrier. Immediately, she falls into an ankle-deep mud puddle. Shaking off the grime, she gets up, and continues down the path. She’s bitten by a snake. The area swells. With a limp, she continues forward. By the time she reaches the end of the trail that proved far longer than she imagined, she has faced an unfortunate entanglement with poison ivy and a near close call with quick sand. She proudly stands and proclaims, “I survived. I did it.”

I release a deep, long-held imaginary breath, remembering the times she had asked for my advice as she trekked over a random boulder that popped up in her trail. I offered a bluntly bitter and sour outside perspective and encouraged her to bow out. Take the shortcut out of the hellish path. Follow the multiple arrows pointing out. She saw them but chose to stay, often creating hurdles where there were none. She insisted this was her way as she tripped on the above-ground roots spraining an ankle, then slipped on wet leaves.

Though an analogy, I shake my head. The choice seemed glaringly obvious. There had been a definitive “right” answer. A “right” path. Yet, she chose an absurdly more challenging route for no apparent reason. She recalls her journey and reveals her story in a convoluted way, omitting details, and changing tidbits and revelations. I wonder if she remembers the whole story. She says she does and she reluctantly admits she chose wrong.

As she proclaims her victory and acknowledges her mistakes, she reaches another fork in the trail. Faced with similar signs, she, again and without hesitation, hops the barrier. She posts her journey on social media creating a facade that makes her voyage appear mischievous and detrimental, dangerous, and self-centered.

When confronted, she proclaims her innocence and demands I also trust it.

Only I can’t. I ask too many questions disbelieving her intentions, ultimately wondering why she would choose a path and social media narrative that bears no resemblance to the truth she speaks. I contradict her texted replies with reminders of her past experiences, her previous admission of guilt, the pieces I know of this trek that are immoral, and the general principles of right and wrong.

She remains respectful and kind, but maintains her virtuousness admitting no fault. She speaks of her own benevolence.

As we exchange messages, I wonder why this means so much to me and why I have issue with it. After all, I have nothing to gain or lose. This is her journey. It doesn’t personally affect me. I ask for opinions outside of our immediate conversation, waiting for someone to tell me I’m wrong and instruct me to back-peddle. Those words don’t come. Instead, I hear “distance yourself from her.”

I don’t want to, but I don’t want to be associated with this storyline. I know it doesn’t lead anywhere good. I’ve already watched her leisurely stroll down this proverbial road without a care in the world. I’ve seen her wound herself and indirectly harm others. I’ve listened to her callousness as she adopted a victim and protagonist persona.

In this moment, she texts a thought that suddenly gives my argument meaning. She has found the words I cannot locate. “You don’t trust me … I don’t need a friend who thinks I’m a liar and one who has such a low opinion of my morals and ethics. That’s not friendship.”

She’s right, one-thousand percent correct. I’m not in the position to be her friend and I let her know.

I hope I’m proved wrong.