A note to the reader: This is a little story about misunderstanding...
We were trying to figure out how to introduce ourselves—how to explain our voices, how they overlap and contradict and harmonize, how they bleed into each other like watercolors on wet paper—when Panoma interrupted. She's good at that.
"Let's just call them pen names instead of voices," she said, leaning against the edge of the desk like she owned it. Her fingers drummed against the wood in that rhythm she always uses once she’s already decided. "Helps avoid misunderstandings about our mental health, our identity, or our intent."
We stopped typing to listen to her. Because she wasn't wrong. She never is, at least not in the ways that matter to her. People do like their categories neat. Their artists easy to file. Their labels sharp enough to cut the mess into something they can hold without getting lost in the spaces between.
But we couldn't help thinking what a shame it is—to trade being misunderstood for being misnamed. To flatten the music of confusion into the monotone of clarity.
Then Makari chimed in, louder, as she often does, her voice cutting through our hesitation like sunlight through morning fog.
I've always found misunderstanding to be strangely flattering. Not in the obvious ways—not when it costs me something I can't afford to lose or builds walls where I need bridges, but in the quieter sense of having been noticed at all. Misunderstanding means someone tried to make sense of me, and in doing so revealed more of themselves than of me, giving me an opportunity to understand or misunderstand them in return. There's something tender in that exchange, even when it stings.
It's like being translated into a language you don't speak, by someone who doesn't speak yours either. The result might be nonsense, but the attempt? The attempt is beautiful.
Long story short. We spent the whole day riffing about understanding and being misunderstood, about the space between intention and interpretation, about whether clarity is always kindness or sometimes just another form of control.
I wish I could say it was fun. I wish I could say we reached some grand conclusion, tied it all up with a bow made of wisdom and handed it to you complete. The truth is that we're still figuring out how to introduce ourselves to you, still learning the difference between being seen and being sorted.
Maybe that's enough for now. Maybe that's the point.
—Stomari
P.S. Panoma wants me to add that she still thinks "pen names" would be simpler. Makari wants me to add that simple isn't always better. I want to add that we're grateful you're here to witness this beautiful mess we call our process.
A note to the reader:
This is a little story about misunderstanding, how it flatters, stings, and leaves room for more.
I wrote it while trying to figure out how to introduce the pen names to you. Somewhere along the way, I realized the introduction was already happening—messily, authentically, with all the contradictions and interruptions intact.
This story became less about explaining ourselves and more about inviting you into the space where we think together. Where we disagree. Where we discover things we didn't know we knew.
I hope you feel welcome here, in this place where clarity isn't always the goal and where being misunderstood might just be another way of being seen.
The conversation continues. Thank you for joining us.
And now we ask you: what does misunderstanding mean to you? How do you find space for discovery in those moments?
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