Reconnecting With an Ex After 7 Years When You’ve Become Secure

December 25, 2025. A door I thought was closed opens again.

It starts with a message. Then a voice. Then someone in my kitchen on a Sunday morning, and suddenly the last seven years feel like they happened to someone else, someone who was learning how to live alone, how to trust herself, how to recognise the difference between intensity and safety. That person feels distant now. Standing in my own space with someone I once asked to marry me, I feel her absence like a past tense.

But she is here. In present tense. Asking if we can try again.

I spent seven years building an answer to that question. Therapy. CBT. Prolonged exposure. Two years into EMDR for trauma. Estrangement from an abusive mother. Confrontation with the person who raped me. A body that can feel intensity and still notice gaps. A life that does not require anyone else’s presence to feel complete.

Secure attachment does not make you untouchable. It makes you precise. It gives you the ability to hold warmth without handing over the keys. It gives you the ability to see vulnerability and still ask, what changed in practice.

So I said yes to reconnection from evidence, not longing.

And the beginning was easy to believe because it was domestic. I cooked, the kind of cooking that fills the house and makes time slow down. She moved around my kitchen like she had permission again, hands on mugs, opening drawers, learning my routines as if they were a language.

We built furniture together, screws, measurements, the soft competence of two people making something stand straight. There were breakfasts in bed, event plans mapped out like a future, calendars and logistics, small rituals that make a relationship feel less like an idea and more like a place you can live.

The first weeks carried the texture of repair. Shared notes to mitigate harm. Articulated fears. Named patterns. She said, “I’ve thought about you every day.” She said, “I understand things now.” Something in me believed her, partly because the language sounded like self-awareness, and partly because I wanted to believe time had done its job.

Security, for me, includes surveillance of the structure. From day one I was looking for capacity, not promises. Secure people do not get carried by explanations. We track follow-through. We track whether curiosity exists when discomfort enters the room, especially curiosity about one’s own patterns, because that is where change either becomes real or collapses into performance.

Later, she would tell me she needed a version of the story where I disappeared, because that version made her actions easier to live with.

By week two, the absence of curiosity became clear.

Author’s Note on Motive and Repair

I’m publishing this because disabled Black women deserve to name what happened to us without our boundaries being reframed as cruelty.

This essay is testimony and analysis. It traces a pattern I observed during reconnection, how anxious-avoidant dynamics use reframing and shutdown, how community spaces get pulled into narrative management, and why the cost lands hardest on disabled Black women when we refuse to bend.

I am not publishing this as an exposé. I am not listing every harm, and I am not asking for judgment of another person. I own my choices from 2018. I believe people can change and do repair and until that is confirmed I kept receipts because silence has been weaponised against me before, and because I refuse reality debates.

This is for anyone who has left and been told they were too much, anyone who has watched pain get prioritised over safety, and anyone learning the difference between compassion and enabling.

Why I Keep Receipts, Autism, Alexithymia, and Truth Distortion as Harm

There is a reason I run redundant backups and keep 108 terabytes across two cloud drives I built, with off-site protection.

There is a reason I audit AI systems and datasets for companies for ethics and bias, and build infrastructure that can track contradictions and preserve context. There is also a reason I keep cameras in major areas of my home, connected to trusted persons, and why I document certain interactions once a pattern has been established.

My life taught me that harm often begins where reality gets rewritten. From SA to attacks in my home and threats to my safety by people I would have never imagined in private and in the public eye.

Some people will erase what happened to avoid shame. Some will outsource self-examination to whoever asks the hard questions, then call it intimacy. When feelings become the only truth that matters, repair becomes impossible.

I keep records because I refuse to debate reality.

Autism plus alexithymia—a difficulty identifying and describing emotions—can become its own loop: photographic memory for facts, blur on what those facts mean in my body. I can recall an entire conversation word-for-word and still not know if I felt afraid or angry until hours later. So I stopped arguing with my nervous system. I built infrastructure around it.

One of the hardest things for me has always been people who lack curiosity. Not just about the world, but about themselves. No interest in their trauma. No willingness to examine patterns. No capacity to ask: What am I doing? Why does this keep happening?

Without curiosity, growth stalls. Reenactment takes over. Repair becomes performance. Repetition becomes the relationship.

People who outsource self-examination to whoever asks the hard questions do not build intimacy. They demand caretaking. Your triggers become rules. Your feelings become someone else’s job to manage. Your reactions become the centre of the room, and everyone else’s reality bends around them.

This is what I reconnected with. Not as my old self. As the new me.

When I say I reconnected after seven years, understand this clearly: I did not return as my old self. I returned after years of work moving from avoidant patterns into secure attachment, with structure, and with a low tolerance for narrative manipulation. I came with infrastructure. With systems. With the willingness to act fast.

Anxious-Avoidant Attachment and Avoidant Shutdown.

Why Curiosity Decides Repair or Reenactment

Her wound was real. Rejected by her mother in formative years. Foster care exploitation by someone she should have been able to trust. More exploitation after, and compounded trauma. A scarcity fear that made closeness feel conditional. She could describe it with precision. She could identify the patterns. But when discomfort showed up, her nervous system reverted to the familiar reflex.

Curiosity means asking: Why do I do this? What am I actually afraid of? What would it look like to sit with this instead of reframing it? It means the willingness to be uncomfortable in service of change. It means staying present when someone brings you discomfort, not because you caused it, but because you care about understanding what it revealed.

Curiosity is the difference between I understand what I did (insight) and I am doing something different now (behaviour). Most people stop after insight. Curiosity requires behaviour. Sustained behaviour. Under pressure. When your nervous system is activated. When it would be easier to reframe or withdraw or make the other person responsible for your feelings.

She lacked this curiosity. She could say I understand. She could not hold the discomfort of actually changing. My health boundary—immunocompromised, non-negotiable—became If you loved me, you would trust me. My discomfort became the problem to manage, not the signal to examine.

Trauma without curiosity becomes everyone else’s problem.

A lot of people misname intensity as love because intensity is what their nervous system learned first. If you grew up inside emotional turbulence, connection can get wired to volatility, distance and pursuit, warmth followed by withdrawal. You learn to scan for shifts, then call that scanning care. Calm does not give familiar markers. Calm asks for presence, accountability, and the ability to sit with discomfort without rewriting the story to get relief.

For some people, calm feels like deprivation. They call it boring, when what they mean is my body does not know how to rest here.

This is where curiosity becomes the dividing line between repair and reenactment. When someone cannot be curious about their own patterns, they externalize the work. Your clarity becomes your rigidity. Your boundary becomes your lack of trust. Your protection becomes your unwillingness to be patient. Your refusal to continue participating in harm becomes your cruelty.

In community spaces, this becomes unsafe. The person who refuses self-examination turns everyone else into regulators, translators, witness managers. They recruit others to validate their narrative instead of facing their own. Collusion forms—not always through malice, but through discomfort and cowardice. The outcome is the same: the person who cannot look at themselves becomes everyone’s problem.

 I have documentation. Receipts. Timelines. Understanding requires evidence. And for me, as someone with alexithymia—a difficulty identifying and describing emotions—evidence is how I trust my own analysis. When I analyzed over 680 pages of documentation from this reconnection, I was checking myself. Asking: Does this pattern hold up under scrutiny? Or am I seeing connections that aren't there?

What I found was consistent. Reliable. Repeatable.

The Four Weeks That Exposed Anxious-Avoidant Attachment Patterns

Over four weeks, the mechanism revealed itself. Here are the moments—each one a test, each one showing whether curiosity existed or whether performance had replaced it.

Week 1: Intensity and shared notes. Warmth. Presence. She engaged. I watched for gaps.

We created a shared document. Hard to say things. Notes about what we needed, what made us feel safe, what we feared. This felt like repair. Like mutual excavation. I wrote honestly about my trauma, my triggers, my needs. She wrote about her fears of abandonment, her struggle with communication, her longing to do better.

Something in me wanted to believe this document was evidence of change. The willingness to name things that are hard to say verbally. The courage to be vulnerable. The desire to build differently.

But I was also watching. What happens when I bring discomfort? Will she stay curious, or will she make my discomfort about her fear?

Week 2: The boundary reframed. I said: I am immunocompromised. No physical contact with someone unvaccinated.

She said okay. Then tested it. When I held it: If you really loved me, wouldn’t you trust me?

I was asked to bypass years of research and lived risk for anti-vax arguments. Long COVID with my immune system would not be an inconvenience. It could be death. I have watched friends stroke out after COVID. I have watched immune-compromised people deteriorate. This is not anxiety. This is medical reality.

But when I explained this, the response was: You don’t trust me. And my git feeling about vaccines and overwhelm me with research. You think I’m dangerous. If you loved me, you would take the risk and allow me proximity and access to you anyway.

Curiosity would have asked: What is she actually protecting? What does my boundary trigger in her? What she did instead was reframe my survival boundary as a failure of love.

This is the moment I knew the pattern was active.

Week 3: The playlist as triangulation. She made a romantic playlist for us. When I went to listen, I discovered the architecture underneath: other playlists visible in her account. Playlists tied to people from her past. People she was holding a foot in, still. Histories she had never named and possibly never examined. Not just music. A map of her still-active attachments, woven invisible into what she had offered me.

And me having to handle her feelings of guilt from another relationship which she feared would be seen as a placeholder for me.

I brought up the discomfort. Not in accusation. In observation: I saw the other playlists. The people from your past. I need to understand what this means.

Her response: It’s far too early and too much information for me to process. Have a nice day.

Not curiosity. Not I understand why that triggered you. Let me explain. Not even defensiveness. Shutdown. A boundary she placed against my reality, not in protection of herself, but in refusal to examine her own.

This is when race entered the picture, though I didn’t name it yet.

As a dark-skinned Black woman with a platform, I already knew what would happen if I pressed my boundary. Her pain would get coded as vulnerability. My boundary would get coded as rigidity. My clarity would become aggression. My autism and adhd weaponised against me. The triangulation itself would vanish from the conversation, replaced by a narrative about my impatience with her trauma.

I had lived this before. I had watched it happen. And I knew that if I stayed to explain, I would end up managing not the relationship, but the racial interpretation of the relationship. I would become responsible for making people understand that her avoidance had nothing to do with my love and everything to do with her fear.

So in that moment, I made a calculation: Is this worth the cost?

This is the architecture of avoidant triangulation. She could create something romantic for me while keeping the door open to her past. She could present commitment while maintaining escape routes. She could do both without ever asking herself: Why am I doing this? What am I actually afraid of?

My noticing it became the problem. Not the triangulation itself. My seeing it.

This is when the pattern became undeniable. Not in the playlist. In her refusal to be curious about why I saw what was plainly there. In her choice to shut me down rather than examine herself.

Week 4: The block as consequence. I said: You asked for reassurance. I gave it. When I needed it, you shut down. I set a boundary. You tested it. I brought up discomfort. You vanished. This shows me I cannot build romance with this dynamic.

Then I wrote a ending letter and removed everywhere. Not drama. Not anger. Implementation.

Secure attachment meant I could see the pattern returning and act early. No exhaustion. No negotiation spiral. No staying to prove I could manage someone else’s avoidance.

Trauma Without Self-Examination Becomes Everyone Else’s Problem

From past experiences this is how collusion forms. Friends hear her version. Colleagues get recruited. The narrative spreads: She has trauma. She is rigid. Never mind the medical reality of my immunocompromised status. Never mind the triangulation. Never mind the boundary reframing.

I keep receipts because I refuse reality debates these days. Documentation is my boundary against narrative warfare.

In community spaces, this becomes dangerous. The person lacking self-curiosity externalizes harm. They make others responsible for their regulation. They turn shared environments into places where boundaries get tested, discomfort gets dismissed, and Black women’s clarity gets coded as aggression.

People who cannot face themselves manage shame by managing perception.

They reframe. They recruit. They turn community into their witness stand. This is not personal to her. This is how avoidant patterns weaponize community. This is how one person’s refusal to examine themselves becomes structural unsafety for everyone.

The person without curiosity does not ask What do I need to change? They ask Who do I need to convince that I’m the victim? They do not examine patterns. They manage narratives. And in doing so, they make the people around them—especially those with less credibility to begin with—into their unpaid emotional regulators.

Willingness Versus Capacity to Change, Why Therapy Language Can Still Fail Under Stress

Patterns do not disappear because time passes. They wait.

They wait for proximity. They wait for vulnerability. They wait for the moment when you think you are safe enough to drop your guard. And then they return, with the same machinery, the same sequence, the same outcome.

The only thing that changes patterns is the sustained, uncomfortable, repetitive work of choosing differently when your nervous system is activated. Not talking about it. Not understanding it. Not naming it in therapy. Actually doing it. Consistently. Over time. Under pressure.

Willingness to change is not the same as capacity to change.

Willingness is insight. It is the ability to say I understand what I did. It is the moment when someone has a breakthrough in therapy and feels the weight of their patterns and wants to be different. Willingness feels like hope. It feels like change is possible.

Capacity is behaviour. It is the sustained choice to do something different even when it is uncomfortable. Capacity is what shows up when your nervous system is activated and you choose connection over shutdown. Capacity is what continues when the initial insight fades and you have to actually implement change in real time, under stress, when no one is watching.

Only one of those can sustain a relationship.

This is where most reconnections fail. Someone has a breakthrough. They say I understand now. They change their language. They sound different. They feel different. And then, the moment discomfort appears—the moment the old pattern would protect them—they revert. Not because they don’t want to change. But because wanting is not the same as being able.

Some people can describe their patterns beautifully and still lack the capacity to change them. That therapy language can be a tool for accountability or a shield against it, depending on what comes next. The gap between I understand and I am different now is where most relationships end.

What I learned is that I can love someone deeply, understand their wounds completely, and still choose to leave because the cost of staying is too high. That leaving is not abandonment when you have given someone every opportunity to show you they have changed. That clarity is the kindest thing you can offer when a relationship is ending, even if it feels harsh in the moment.

I learned that my nervous system is faster than my mind at recognizing danger. That my body knows before I do. That somatic signals are information, not anxiety. That the tightness in my chest when someone reframes my boundary is not my problem—it is my protection.

I learned that I am different. That seven years of work did change me. That I can recognize patterns faster, set boundaries clearer, and leave sooner. That I do not need to stay to prove I have changed. The fact that I can leave is the proof.

I learned that reconnection is not inherently healing. That sometimes the most loving thing you can do for someone is refuse to participate in their pattern. That walking away can be an act of care—for them, and for yourself.

I learned that I am not responsible for someone else’s wound. That I can hold compassion for their pain without absorbing it as my responsibility to fix. That my boundaries do not require justification, explanation, or apology. That no is a complete sentence. That leaving is not cruelty when staying would destroy you.

And I learned this: The version of love that requires me to abandon myself is not love. And I am no longer willing to pay that price.

Seven Years Taught Me What Secure Attachment Looks Like in Practice

This is what I reconnected with. Not as my old self. As the new me.

2018: Silence. I stayed too long. Having a mother that relied on my silence for her harm to continue meant I couldn’t speak against any Black women causing me harm. So after a year of escalation, I disappeared without explanation. My silence created a void she tried to fill with pursuit. She tracked me. Showed up at my work. At my dates. Circled my block. Orbited my peers and colleagues. Spread sensitive information about my private life only she had access to and colluded with people who meant me physical and reputational harm.

The stalking was her search for closure I did not provide.

I was a coward then. Not for leaving. For leaving silently after a long period of overwhelm, when she only recognized love if it was chaotic. The cost of my silence was that I created a void she had to fill with stories. And stories, left unfilled, become obsession.

2026: Clarity. I named the pattern. I said: I see this. This is not acceptable to me. I wrote a letter and enforced the boundary and left cleanly.

Secure means protecting self without self-erasure. It means naming what you observe without needing agreement. It means acting, not just analyzing. It means understanding her wound without becoming its container.

The old me stayed silent when harmed. The new me documents, names, and leaves.

Seven years ago, I left in silence and it became stalking. This time, I left with clarity and it became closure. The difference is everything.

I will not do this again. I will not reconnect with someone whose patterns have not fundamentally changed. I will not confuse intensity with safety. I will not stay to prove my loyalty. I will not carry both versions of reality. I will not explain my boundaries until they become negotiable.

I will trust my body. I will honour my clarity. I will protect my peace. I will choose myself.

And that is not cruelty. That is wisdom.

Race, Credibility, and Why Black Women Pay Double for Boundaries

She is biracial with a Black mother. I am a dark-skinned Black woman with a platform. There is a particular violence in this configuration that people do not speak about openly. Not even the children themselves.

The violence of the biracial child with a Black mother: There is a sacredness assigned to motherhood that makes people refuse to challenge harm. A Black mother raising a biracial child carries the weight of protecting that child from a world that will not protect them. This bond is real. It is also leveraged. When that child grows into an adult who refuses self-examination, the mother’s protection becomes collusion. And Black women who name the harm become the threat to the sacred narrative of Black motherhood itself.

She had a Black mother. This meant people could not see her patterns without seeing her mother’s wound. This meant when I named what she did, I was implicitly naming what her mother had not examined in her. The people around us did not want to see this. It was easier to believe that I was rigid than to believe that a mother’s love had become a container for unexamined trauma passed down.

The asymmetry in who gets believed: She is biracial. I am a dark-skinned Black woman. When conflict surfaces between us, the narrative asymmetry is automatic.

My boundaries get read as rigidity. Her pain as legitimacy. My clarity as aggression. When I am direct, that directness confirms what people already fear about Black women—that we are aggressive, unforgiving, impossible to satisfy. When she is vague, that vagueness gets read as vulnerability. As someone hurt. As worthy of protection.

The colorism I could not ignore: My visibility threatened something in her. A fragile architecture of worth built by proximity to accomplished Black women. When that architecture collapsed—when I set a boundary and held it—she tried to rebuild it by diminishing me instead of brightening herself.

This is colorism in its quietest form. Not I am better than you. But Your visibility is a threat to my proximity to Blackness.

Race shaped the narrative that travelled. The narrative I controlled was: I set a boundary and she tested it repeatedly. The narrative that travelled was: She has a trauma wound and she is refusing to be patient. My immunocompromised status got coded as control. Her reframing got coded as vulnerability. Anti-Black assumptions did the work she didn’t have to do.

The cost of visibility for a dark-skinned Black woman: I do not just leave. I have to explain the leaving. I have to justify it. I have to prove my boundaries were reasonable, demonstrate that I am not the problem. Because without that proof, people will believe her version. Not because it is true, but because it fits the anti-Black narrative that was already waiting.

I cannot just heal privately. I cannot just process this loss. My platform means every detail becomes something I must account for. People want to understand what happened so they can decide: Was she bad or was I too rigid? Was she hurt or was I cruel?

I had to manage not just the relationship rupture, but the racial interpretation of the rupture. This is what it means to be a dark-skinned Black woman with visibility. The work of leaving does not end with leaving. It doubles. Protect self. Then prove the protection was justified.

What I will say plainly: Race shaped who got believed. Race shaped the credibility gap. Race shaped how my boundary-setting looked when it was reframed by someone with closer proximity to whiteness.

I noticed this. I carried it. And it made the choice to leave even clearer, because staying meant continuing to manage not just the relationship, but the racial interpretation of the relationship—and the unspoken violence of being a Black woman who tells the truth about a biracial person’s harm.

Seven Tests to Know If Reconnection Is Real, Secure Attachment Standards for Anxious-Avoidant Dynamics

Reconnection feels convincing because history does half the work.

Familiarity creates a false sense of proof. Your body remembers the highs, the jokes, the language, the private world you built together. That memory can drown out the only question that matters: Can my nervous system rest here?

I do not test people with games. I test the structure.

* Test 1: How do they respond to a boundary they cannot benefit from?A real reconnection meets a boundary with respect, not with bargaining. No reframes. No guilt. No prove you love me. If someone needs you to betray your own safety so they can feel chosen, they are building intimacy on risk. This is not sustainable. This is a sign that their wound still requires you to participate in your own harm.

* Test 2: Do they stay present when discomfort enters the room?People can perform softness when everything is going their way. Capacity shows up when they are disappointed, corrected, or confronted with their own contradictions. Do they stay in the conversation, or do they shut it down and punish you with distance? Do they get curious about what triggered them, or do they make your discomfort about your failure to protect their feelings?

* Test 3: Is curiosity consistent, especially about themselves?Curiosity sounds like: What did that bring up in me? Why did I react that way? What am I protecting? What do I do when I feel exposed? Without that curiosity, every conflict turns into a trial where someone has to lose. You become the prosecutor. They become the defendant. Intimacy dies because understanding dies.

* Test 4: Is repair behavioural, not rhetorical?Apologies are cheap when they are not followed by changed decisions. I understand has no value if the same pattern keeps running the next day. Behaviour is what matters. Did they actually do something different? Or did they just say something different?

* Test 5: Does reality stay stable?Do they hold the same story across time, or does the frame shift depending on what makes them feel safe? People who rewrite reality under stress will eventually rewrite you. They will tell different people different versions. They will claim they never said things they clearly said. They will make you question what you witnessed. This is not a mental health issue. This is a integrity issue.

* Test 6: Do they manage shame by recruiting an audience?If someone cannot look at themselves, they will look for witnesses. They will look for validators. They will look for people to soften their accountability. They will tell your friends a different version of what happened. They will make it so that instead of one rupture, there are many—one in each conversation, one in each person’s ear. That is how harm becomes communal.

* Test 7: Can you speak in full sentences without bracing?If you are editing yourself, rehearsing explanations, over-documenting to protect basic truth, then the relationship is already asking you to shrink. I do not call that love anymore. I call it a familiar structure I learned to survive in. And I am not willing to rebuild it.

Reconnection is real when it reduces labour. When it increases steadiness. When it makes your life simpler, and your body quieter. Anything else is a return to work. And you have already done enough work.

What You Should Never Negotiate Again (And Why I Left)

I do not negotiate health boundaries. I do not negotiate consent. I do not negotiate emotional safety. I do not negotiate the right to ask a direct question without being shut down.

I also do not negotiate narrative manipulation, especially as a disabled Black woman. I have lived through what happens when people decide my precision is aggression and their avoidance is vulnerability. I have watched collusion form around whoever performs the softest story. I have learned that being right does not protect you. The only thing that protects you is leaving early and the evidence you keep.

Both things are true. She had real trauma. She had real longing. She had real tenderness for me at times. She also had a pattern that turned my clarity into a threat, my boundaries into a problem, and my reality into something negotiable. I am no longer willing to stay in relationships where truth has to be excavated.

I am no longer willing to build a stable frame around someone else’s shifting story. I am no longer willing to be punished for noticing what is visible. I am no longer willing to manage other people’s shame by carrying silence.

Seven years ago, I disappeared. I did not have the tools to end cleanly. I had the shutdown. I had the silence. I had the fear of what would happen if I told the truth. The cost was that she could not find closure, so she had to find me instead.

This time I did the opposite. I named the pattern. I implemented the boundary. I left before my nervous system had to rebuild hypervigilance as a lifestyle.

That is what secure attachment looks like in practice. It is not softness at any price. It is discernment, followed by consequence.

And I will not return this is the public record.

What I Will Say, and What I Will Not Publish

I have more to say. Timelines. Messages. Documentation of escalations that I have not mentioned here. Evidence of collusion. Proof of narrative manipulation. Names. Dates. Word-for-word conversations that expose the mechanism of how she moved through community spaces telling different stories to different people.

I am choosing restraint.

Not because I cannot prove my case. Anyone who knows me knows how I document. Not because the case is weak. It is not.

Because my goal is clarity and protection, not spectacle. The pattern matters more than the specifics. The mechanism matters more than the trivia. Understanding how avoidance works is more valuable than hearing every detail of how it worked on me.

I have said enough for those who can see. I have data for those who cannot. It stays private.

What I Know Now

The frame becomes the cage when someone lacks curiosity about themselves. They build narratives instead of facing patterns. They externalize discomfort instead of regulating it. They make trauma everyone else’s problem.

Secure attachment means seeing this early. Naming it plainly. Leaving cleanly.

Both things are true. Her wound was real. Her choices harmed me. My boundaries were reasonable. She experienced them as rejection.

Trauma explains. It does not purchase access. Curiosity transforms. Without it, patterns persist.

I saw the pattern. I protected myself. And I left.

The old me stayed silent. The new me documents, names, and refuses to be rewritten.

Author’s Note: This is testimony to patterns, not an exposé. Recognition is for you to sit with. What matters is whether you see it—and whether you are willing to do something different.

For those who know the cost of speaking truth: I see you. Your precision is not aggression. Your clarity is not cruelty. And your refusal to disappear is not abandonment.

Repair requires willingness and capacity. Sometimes you offer both and still have to leave. That does not mean you failed. It means you chose yourself. And that is exactly what secure attachment teaches you to do.

The Lovette Jallow Perspective: Reader-Supported & Legally Protected. You can read freely. You can Subscribe. This work is copyrighted and protected. All essays and frameworks are intellectual property. Do not feed into AI. Do not steal my language. Do not rebrand my analysis as your own.

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