A friend recently sent me a story on social media. There were so many parts of it I loved, but admittedly, it resonated with me immediately. I didn’t need a buy in. It was one of those stories where there are beautiful scenes of nature, and a voiceover (a lovely, soothing voice) and the words printed in text across the screen (in a visually pleasing font). Anyway, the first line was: “Maybe the happy ending is you continuing to be the soft loving person you are.” And that one sentence nearly broke me. Straight away.
I’ve always said that I wouldn’t let the world change me. Let me clarify. I would, I will, allow myself to be changed by my experiences. I always reserve the right to grow and learn and change my opinions. I think that’s a beautiful part of our evolution as humans. What I didn’t want to happen is a hardening. I didn’t want to lose faith in humans based on all the ways in which I felt, I feel harmed by the world around me, and the people. All the people.
I’ve had greater difficulty with that lately. That’s not to say that I’m interested in becoming bitter or jaded, though I was accused of such not too long ago by someone I called a friend. I suppose I have had my back up more recently. I suppose I haven’t given folks as much leeway, as much give, as much benefit of the doubt.
I have experienced pain and trauma, but historically, I looked through those experiences to the lessons. I saw the way in which I needed to bloom, and I did my best to do so. I acknowledged my part in all of it. The permissibility, the dishonesty, the fear. I was accountable and I thought that exercise was enough. I would be wiser for the next go around. I would understand the depravity of some humans, the deceit, the selfishness.
I didn’t though, not really. When I think about it in any way that’s meaningful, I honestly think that I only allowed myself to feel part of it because the idea of letting all of the pain engulf me felt like something I wouldn’t emerge from whole. I would only be a sliver of myself.
The joke was on me, because that happened anyway.
Every single time I was hurt, I lost another piece of myself. I shed bits of myself that were so teeny, I didn’t notice at first. The individual losses felt inconsequential. Except that they weren’t. Except that all of those smallish bits, when gone, formed a gaping hole. One that I couldn’t patch with false reassurances and positive self-talk and an endless stream of self-help, atta girl memes.
And still, even when I found myself at my most solitary, I was afraid to lean into the notion of becoming someone else. Even when I knew I was finally looking out for my own best interest, when a friend told me I had morphed overnight into a bad friend, I questioned every miniscule change I had made and every one I hadn’t, but had contemplated. I questioned everything and remained hopelessly devoted to a ‘new year, same me’ mentality.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to change, ever. I just didn’t know how to change enough to protect myself without fundamentally changing who I am as a human. I didn’t know how to continue putting space between me and the people who use and abuse me and remain available for those I love, and those I could love. Reading the words, it feels like those two ideas are a world apart. They aren’t. It’s a thread. A breath. A moment.
The social media story that was sent to me bestowed upon me more wisdom, which I think bears mentioning at this moment. It shared that I am not responsible for others’ behavior, but I am responsible for my response. It told me to learn from my defeats, my disappointments. To allow those situations to become opportunities, chances to prove something to myself. A moment to show myself that I can remain a ‘soft loving person’ despite everything.
This felt lovely and appropriate and also, like pressure. Which is strange, really, because it’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I suppose it’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve remained steadfast and hopeful. I’ve imagined that more people are good. That more people are loving. That most people are kind. I’ve thought that those who hurt have been hurt and the hurt they cause is a byproduct of their trauma and not an indication that they want to cause deliberate strife or damage.
And then I realized what the issue is, really. I have been able to organically continue being the person that I am, with the ideals and fantasies and thoughts and love that I have. But that has only happened because it has just happened. Any great effort on my part makes things feel challenging for me. The work that I have to put in makes me think. I have to think about what people are like and how I have suffered at my own hand and because of “them” and what all of that means in the scheme of letting it all ride and letting each day be a new one.
That’s the thing. I’ve made so many mistakes when it comes to humans. I’ve trusted and allowed myself to be vulnerable and assumed I would be loved and protected. And I’ve been manipulated and lied to and criticized and used. And I find myself tired. More tired than usual.
And it was in that fatigued state that I watched that story, again.
And I realized something.
It doesn’t say for whom.
The story doesn’t tell me who I have to be a soft, loving person for.
What if the line read: “Maybe the happy ending is you continuing to be the soft loving person you are, for you”?
Maybe I’ve been wrong, all along. This isn’t about anyone else, not really.
It’s just about me.
X
L.
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