Why is it so Hard to Speak my Truth Without Disclaimers?

I’ve noticed that I give a lot of disclaimers.

I’ll follow up with something I’ve said by clarifying what I’m *not* saying.

I’ll interrupt myself mid-sentence to qualify a statement, or explain my explanation.

And I make certain that I’m never, at any point,  “throwing any babies out with the bathwater.”

It comes from a deep need to be understood. I attempt to fashion words around the exact nature of how I’m feeling. I want nothing to be lost in translation. I want to protect myself from the distinct ache of isolating loneliness that comes from being the receiving end of assumption, confusion, or dismissal. 

So I choose my words carefully in hopes that I’ll be seen. Or I’ll choose silence if there’s any chance that I’m not being listened to, or the other person isn’t going to receive me well. Shutting down is much safer.

girl-hiding-mittensI see that look on the faces of the people who love me. One of bemused confusion at trying to navigate through my over-explanations to the heart of what I’m trying to say. Most of the time, I receive empathy and understanding when I do finally spit things out. And yet, it’s still so hard for me to speak freely, a lot of the time. Bold statements and half-formed ideas are a challenge to get out.

When I was a senior in college, I sought counseling for the first time. I had been living with a mild depression off and on for most of college, and the weight of the constant heaviness in my chest finally got to be too much. I’d slip up the stairs of the student health center, hoping no one I knew saw me, and I’d sit in a quiet, lamp-lit room, fidgeting with my hands and starting to untangle the inner knots with my counselor, Julie.

After a few weeks, between my stunted attempts at articulating the sources and symptoms of my insecurity, she made an observation. “I’m noticing these long pauses before you answer my questions. It’s like you go inside yourself, and figure out what you want to say, before bringing the words out in the open. While thinking before you speak is sometimes a wise choice Allie, there are spaces where you should be able to be messy in front of other people. Relationships where you can let it all spill out; where you can trust the other person to make space for whatever you’re experiencing.”

This impulse, this thought that I could make myself fully seen and fully known by wrapping my carefully chosen words in explanation and disclaimer was actually hindering intimacy. Needing to be understood was actually keeping me from being known.

I see my friends doing this too. I want to dismiss their disclaimers. I want them to know that I’m in this with them, whatever vulnerable thing they’re trying to grasp for words, or they know what their honesty might sound like, and they’re hesitant. So they hedge their words with buffers and qualifiers, and there are long pauses. I want to tell them to just spit it out! I want them to give me the benefit of the doubt that I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt. I want them to trust that I can understand where their coming from and have probably had the same thoughts as them.

girl-by-riverBecause here’s the thing. Paradox and inconsistency are at the core of what it means to be human. We live in the midst of all sorts of tensions and contradictions. To deny that and insist on clear-cut answers is to forfeit being fully alive.

“If we are to be aware of life while we are living it, we must have the courage to relinquish our hard-earned control of ourselves.” (Madeleine L’Engle)

It is possible to uphold two opposing truths. Because truth is often found in the nuance. And maturity looks like stepping into the complexities, making peace with the mystery as you continue to explore and observe. To truly be seen and understood is a miracle, and it doesn’t happen when we’re posturing and presenting neatly articulated packages of ourselves. It happens in the messy art of living out loud.

I’ve got to stop being paralyzed by the fear of being misunderstood. I long to stop wasting all this energy on the defending myself against these imaginary arguments. I need to be willing to be wrong. Need to step out in honesty, spilling open to the people who’ve earned the right to bear witness to my messiness. I want to practice the revolutionary act of not  always having to explain myself.

two girls on a carSo maybe this whole blog post is an ironic disclaimer about how I want to stop giving disclaimers. It’s an invitation to you too. You who chooses silence over the risk of a bold statement or an honest confession. A call to stop worrying so much about how things are going to be received and tell the truth as you’ve experienced it. To get out of your head and live out loud.

(Of course, this is not a call to speak flippantly to whomever, whenever. Of course, we should know when to listen, and not say something that would be hurtful…. but there I go again, giving another disclaimer! I’m going to leave you, dear reader, trusting that you know the heart behind the words I’m attempting to speak.)

When Bravery Means Being Less Agreeable

My default setting is to be agreeable.

I’m really good at nodding my head. My people-pleasing skills are exceptional. My ability to perceive what other people want and try to be accommodating is unparalleled.

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It may look humble and kind to the outside observer. It looks like I’m being a loving and “good” daughter/sister/friend/student/employee. But peel back the layers of this “nice girl” persona, and you’ll see a highly functioning and insidious defense mechanism. An attempt to protect myself from ever being misunderstood, or met with any hint of disapproval or disappointment. A refusal to show my full self to others as an attempt to control their perceptions of me.

If I disagree or have some unpleasant reaction to someone, I’ll do my best to keep it a private matter. Internal stewing and nasty thoughts written out in my journal. But externally, I keep nodding and smiling. I stay silent and small. The thought of saying “I disagree with you” terrifies me. So I just avoid any hint of conflict.

fullsizerender-jpg-5This attempt to be agreeable all the time, this crusade to never disappoint anyone ever? It’s exhausting. I know from experience and research that this leads to exhaustion, isolation, and depression. So I am doing everything I know (talking about it, speaking out the shame, taking small steps of bravery) to unlearn this default setting of people-pleasing.

I write about why we should pursue the things that make us feel most alive. I want and need to be clear that this is not only an external affair. This isn’t just about lifestyle choices and how we spend our time. Being wholehearted and vibrantly alive begins with being bravely honest with all of the parts of you. Not just the presentable, easily likable parts.

My ambition in this blog isn’t for it to be a collection of whimsical thoughts about how to be more free-spirited. This is an urgent cry to embrace wholeness. Most of that process is uncomfortable and hard and messy. But oh, dear reader, it is necessary. And it is Good.

fullsizerender-jpgI used to think that it wasn’t okay to have negative feelings. Anger, sadness, or disgust were emotions to be snuffed out and stuffed down as quickly and quietly as possible. I didn’t think it was possible to be loving and disagree with someone at the same time. That empathy and the word “no” were mutually exclusive.

fullsizerender-jpg-7This week was hard for me. I had to reckon with my patterns of agreeableness coming to a halt. My patterns of privileged complacency and fear-based silence were exposed. I felt the effects of speaking up about my sadness over the election and having people that I love and care about disagree with me. My normal mode of agreeableness crumbled as I felt angry and misunderstood. I didn’t like it one bit.

But rather than my previous attempts to push past those negative feelings, I tried to be hospitable towards that grief and frustration. Rather than jumping to the “right answer” conclusion, I stepped into the uncomfortable space of wrestling with the tension for just a bit.

It was exhausting.

I made a lot of mistakes.

But it felt like a step in the right direction.

See, my old way of being? The needing to be pleasant all the time version of Allie? She thought she was being a peacemaker, but she was actually just being a peace-keeper.

Keeping the peace means making sure that no one is rocking the boat. It means running around trying to manage everyone’s emotional state and making sure that we’re all ok all the time.

But that’s actually not my job.

What a relief—that it’s not my responsibility to keep everyone happy all the time, or to maintain an environment where no one ever feels uncomfortable or is disappointed in any way. Because I’ve been trying to shoulder that responsibility, and it turns out that I’m not that good at controlling circumstances or other people’s responses to life.

To be a peacemaker is to believe that people are doing the best they can. To choose to trust that people act the way they do and believe what they do for a reason. And to lead with empathy and curiosity in interacting with people.

And it also means being willing to disagree with them. To be willing to ask uncomfortable questions and really listen to their answers. It means risking discord as you share your convictions. It means engaging in relationship with people that are different, with intention and humility and honesty. 

It means actually loving people. Which isn’t synonymous with making sure that other people are comfortable all the time.

This week was a reminder that the world doesn’t need an Agreeable Allie. It does need a Wholehearted Allie. My anger, my opposition, and my words of grief need to have a place at the table, alongside understanding and empathy and words of comfort.

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I’m not saying we should all start shaking our fists and raging all over the place. Let’s not throw any babies out with any bathwater here.

But I am inviting you to question your default setting.

If your impulse is to avoid conflict at all costs, maybe you need to lean into uncomfortable conversations with people.

If you’re quick to spout off your opinions or blast your social media feed with inflammatory articles, I invite you to listen. To be willing to be wrong.

What does wholeheartedness look like for you this week?

Facing the Reality of my Smallness

To-do lists and timers. These are the things that fill my days. I have editing work, research for new articles, contacts to pitch to, and online courses. But mostly I write. I’ll set my timer set for 52 minutes (because I read somewhere that 52 minutes is the ideal amount of time to be productive) and I try my best to show up on the page.

Because this is my life now. Part of my reason for traveling was because it makes me feel alive and inspires me and it was an opportunity that I knew I had to take. But the other part of traveling is that it would give me space and a break from “normal routine” to step into the discipline of writing.
And writing.
And writing some more.

bw1I’m writing and writing because I’m hoping that quantity will lead to quality. I’m putting my work out in the best ways I know how because I’m hoping that some of my writing is helpful and life-giving to others. And because this is a lifestyle that makes sense with who I am and how I want to live.

Most days, I feel giddy and grateful that I get to do this. That technology, privilege, and the generosity of others have made space for a season to pursue this. I have moments of sensing purpose and the confidence to keep moving forward.

But every couple of days, (usually on Tuesday afternoons for some reason), storm clouds of doubt roll in. I see the reality of my current situation in a different light, and I start to panic.

“Why the hell did you think this was a good idea? Everything you write is cliche and self-indulgent. I suppose it doesn’t matter because hardly anyone is reading it anyway. Look at the staggering volume of other writers out there, saying basically the same thing as you, only better. It’s silly that you thought you could actually do this. Maybe, just maybe if you try this formula from that famous blogger who made 6 figures in six months, or just try a little harder. You aren’t doing enough, but maybe you can be ok if you just…”

This is the point where I try to walk away from the conversation in my head. I make another cup of tea or call my sister. I try not to take my inner drama queen too seriously. Because I knew when I set out on this creative risk, that these thoughts would come.

I expose my inner monologue to you, dear reader because I think that maybe you have some of the same conversations inside your head. We all have our moments of coming face to face with our smallness. But everything—our happiness, our ability to make good work, our wholeness depends on how we respond to these doubts.

The recognition of being small? The awareness that everything that I produce isn’t immediately good? The wrestling with our desire to be seen and known and loved? This is what it means to be human.

The shaming thoughts of not being enough? Comparing myself with others when I can only see part of the picture? Launching campaigns to validate my worth by sheer effort? These are red flags.

It may look like a strong work ethic or humility, but chasing after an elusive perfection is a lie that will eat away my soul. My wholeness depends on evicting those thought patterns from my mind as often as they show up and try to take residence.

bw5This week in particular, I felt the weight of my smallness. The voices of self-doubt were louder. The second guessing and disillusioned reveries increased. These thoughts aren’t new. But the weary familiarity stung just the same. Traveling has made me feel small. Flinging myself out from under an umbrella of predictability and into a storm of unknowns has made me feel small. Attempting a creative career as a writer has made me feel minuscule.

Small isn’t a bad thing, but coming to grips with it can mean a wrestling match with your ego. I am very much in the middle of this, and I don’t know if that will ever change. I have to convince myself, at least once a day, that this is not only ok but exactly where I’m supposed to be. Not having it figured out. Not knowing how it will all turn out. Not doing it perfectly.

I try to have my eyes wide open to today. I try to focus on just the very next itty-bitty step, the piece that I can see. And I try to do that with excellence. For 52 minutes. This is where I start. 52-minute chunks of smallness that I’m trusting will build to something. What, I don’t know. But that’s not up to me, I suppose.

I think so much depends on how I choose to respond to these mood swings.

bw2My choice to let go of expectations and remain open to possibilities.
My choice to keep showing up, regardless of how I feel.
My choice to shift from needing a certain outcome to trusting the process.

My choice to keep claiming the arrogance of belonging.