Vulnerability on stage (#metoo)
I've listened to Pink's new album on repeat for the last few days and I feel like its one of those albums that changes things. The last time I felt this way about an album - in awe of such a beautiful musical masterpiece, feeling like every lyric could have been written about me, the only thing that speaks to my heart over and over in such a way - was with Paradise Valley by John Mayer. I was in my teenage years and in love with a boy who never loved me back, spending my summer in the mountain town I've loved since I was a child, trying to make myself believe I was worthy of good things.
Listening to Paradise Valley still brings me back to that place, every time. It brings me back to dancing barefoot in the kitchen on sunny Sunday mornings believing that I was the kind of girl good things happened to. (I was and I am. Not with that boy, or in the way I expected it to happen, but I did stop running and get my little bit of heaven)
I feel the same way about Pink's album. I feel like I'll look back in 5, 10, 20 years and remember this time in my life and how these songs were a soundtrack to a great becoming. I'll think of this album and this first year of marriage and how sometimes it feels like we're only surviving off of the bones of our love. How intimacy reveals all your flaws and deepest hurts and sometimes I wonder if I was built for love. How even though it wasn't written about marriage, What About Us feels like the cry of my marriage and that one Sunday I laid in bed and listened to it on repeat for 2 hours straight and cried over the weight between us and out of jealousy and angry over other people getting the chance to do it right and how much pain I caused myself and the fairy tale I never got and told myself I was ok with not having. And I cried on that Sunday because sometimes it feels like all we are is unanswered questions and everyone else seems to be getting this and what about us?
There are a lot of things I want to say that I'm not saying because my story is interwoven with other people's stories and those stories, that pain, is not mine to share. But I've been sitting in this heartache space for the last few weeks, feeling small and unstable and hurting. The pain of medically complex infertility, the pain of severed relationships, the pain of my marriage and how these life seasons can put a strain on things, the beautiful, stretching pain of entering into a new phase with a new job and chasing dreams and how this is all so amazing but its also lonely and scary and requires leaving behind things you didn't know you would have to put down.
A friend shared today on her instastories about her tough spaces and how in this hard space she wanted to keep her head down, duck out, not let herself be seen. But she also said that wasn't her, and it didn't feel right to her or like it was true to the person she was.
And I feel the same way. This new life season brings up in me the desire to duck down and pull the blankets up tighter around my shoulders and not let myself be seen. And yet I am being asked to walk new ground and enter into brave new territory, to let myself be seen.
There's still a sting there. Still the ache of stepping out and my heart fragile and it not being received the way I want it to be.
It's like doing a buti demo on stage and the music is all wrong and people are walking by looking at other things and there isn't enough room and no one you invited showed up to support you in this vulnerable, new thing and you wonder if you're even doing it right. And I stepped off that stage and I felt all kinds of disappointment and frustration.
And then I realized my life is like that demo. I'm handing out vulnerable pieces of my heart and I don't get the reaction I want or I get reactions that are cruel and every thing I'm asked to give up or that falls apart feels like a further unraveling and still I'm asked to get up there and do it again.
Am I crazy for continuing to get up there? What am I doing?
And then I realize the lesson. The goal isn't to get up there and be honest and vulnerable and raw and have everyone love you. Its to get up there and dance and not care what they think or say because its not about them.
And my tribe, the people I was disappointed never came, they were here the whole time. They were with me, in it, feeling the feelings and being vulnerable and honest and dancing anyway.
I'm in a hard season, a painful season, a season of growing and stretching. I feel like my entire life has been a season of growing and stretching and becoming more of this person I was meant to be and making peace with the girl in the mirror. My heart is raw and things aren't going the way I wanted them to but I'm showing up anyway. I'm crawling up onto that stage and letting myself be seen and dancing. Because it was never about them anyway. It's always been about what heals you. And your people are the ones up there with you, cheering you on, sharing their stories and being honest and paving the way for you or holding your hands because whatever happens you're in this together.
Have you seen the #metoo hashtag on facebook? It's people who have experienced sexual assault or harassment saying me too so we can get an idea the magnitude of this epidemic. I've shared my sexual assault story for years so this wasn't new and earth shattering to me but I know it might be for some of you. Maybe its your first time saying out loud me too. Maybe you're met with backlash and cruel words that poke you in your vulnerable places too and it feels like the hardest thing to just keep living out loud. I want you to know you aren't alone. I am so insanely proud of you for being brave with your story, for crawling up on stage where your tribe is waiting for you. I'll be your cheerleader, I'll hold your hand. Me too, friend, me too. Even if you can't say it out loud yet, that's ok. Wherever you are is ok. This is about your healing, your reclamation of true freedom, the kind you might not even be able to see from where you are. That's ok. I see it for you. I'll believe in it for you until you can believe it for yourself. I believe you. I see your heart and I know it is good. Me too.
Listening to Paradise Valley still brings me back to that place, every time. It brings me back to dancing barefoot in the kitchen on sunny Sunday mornings believing that I was the kind of girl good things happened to. (I was and I am. Not with that boy, or in the way I expected it to happen, but I did stop running and get my little bit of heaven)
I feel the same way about Pink's album. I feel like I'll look back in 5, 10, 20 years and remember this time in my life and how these songs were a soundtrack to a great becoming. I'll think of this album and this first year of marriage and how sometimes it feels like we're only surviving off of the bones of our love. How intimacy reveals all your flaws and deepest hurts and sometimes I wonder if I was built for love. How even though it wasn't written about marriage, What About Us feels like the cry of my marriage and that one Sunday I laid in bed and listened to it on repeat for 2 hours straight and cried over the weight between us and out of jealousy and angry over other people getting the chance to do it right and how much pain I caused myself and the fairy tale I never got and told myself I was ok with not having. And I cried on that Sunday because sometimes it feels like all we are is unanswered questions and everyone else seems to be getting this and what about us?
There are a lot of things I want to say that I'm not saying because my story is interwoven with other people's stories and those stories, that pain, is not mine to share. But I've been sitting in this heartache space for the last few weeks, feeling small and unstable and hurting. The pain of medically complex infertility, the pain of severed relationships, the pain of my marriage and how these life seasons can put a strain on things, the beautiful, stretching pain of entering into a new phase with a new job and chasing dreams and how this is all so amazing but its also lonely and scary and requires leaving behind things you didn't know you would have to put down.
A friend shared today on her instastories about her tough spaces and how in this hard space she wanted to keep her head down, duck out, not let herself be seen. But she also said that wasn't her, and it didn't feel right to her or like it was true to the person she was.
And I feel the same way. This new life season brings up in me the desire to duck down and pull the blankets up tighter around my shoulders and not let myself be seen. And yet I am being asked to walk new ground and enter into brave new territory, to let myself be seen.
There's still a sting there. Still the ache of stepping out and my heart fragile and it not being received the way I want it to be.
It's like doing a buti demo on stage and the music is all wrong and people are walking by looking at other things and there isn't enough room and no one you invited showed up to support you in this vulnerable, new thing and you wonder if you're even doing it right. And I stepped off that stage and I felt all kinds of disappointment and frustration.
And then I realized my life is like that demo. I'm handing out vulnerable pieces of my heart and I don't get the reaction I want or I get reactions that are cruel and every thing I'm asked to give up or that falls apart feels like a further unraveling and still I'm asked to get up there and do it again.
Am I crazy for continuing to get up there? What am I doing?
And then I realize the lesson. The goal isn't to get up there and be honest and vulnerable and raw and have everyone love you. Its to get up there and dance and not care what they think or say because its not about them.
And my tribe, the people I was disappointed never came, they were here the whole time. They were with me, in it, feeling the feelings and being vulnerable and honest and dancing anyway.
I'm in a hard season, a painful season, a season of growing and stretching. I feel like my entire life has been a season of growing and stretching and becoming more of this person I was meant to be and making peace with the girl in the mirror. My heart is raw and things aren't going the way I wanted them to but I'm showing up anyway. I'm crawling up onto that stage and letting myself be seen and dancing. Because it was never about them anyway. It's always been about what heals you. And your people are the ones up there with you, cheering you on, sharing their stories and being honest and paving the way for you or holding your hands because whatever happens you're in this together.
Have you seen the #metoo hashtag on facebook? It's people who have experienced sexual assault or harassment saying me too so we can get an idea the magnitude of this epidemic. I've shared my sexual assault story for years so this wasn't new and earth shattering to me but I know it might be for some of you. Maybe its your first time saying out loud me too. Maybe you're met with backlash and cruel words that poke you in your vulnerable places too and it feels like the hardest thing to just keep living out loud. I want you to know you aren't alone. I am so insanely proud of you for being brave with your story, for crawling up on stage where your tribe is waiting for you. I'll be your cheerleader, I'll hold your hand. Me too, friend, me too. Even if you can't say it out loud yet, that's ok. Wherever you are is ok. This is about your healing, your reclamation of true freedom, the kind you might not even be able to see from where you are. That's ok. I see it for you. I'll believe in it for you until you can believe it for yourself. I believe you. I see your heart and I know it is good. Me too.
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