“Je ne sais pas” I said methodically emphasizing each syllable.
“If there’s one thing you should be able to say, it’s “I don’t know.’”
I was no expert in French, but a few years of straight As in the subject had me boastfully lecturing to my dad before he left for his trip to Quebec.
Oooh… if I only knew the depths of my own advice!
Roughly ten years later with much rustier French, I have come to face the importance of boldly claiming “I don’t know” in response to every facet of my life.
I don’t know where I’m moving. I don’t know what I’m going to do for work next. I don’t know if I’ll find a significant other. And I don’t know if everything’s going to be ok.
I could smile and say “I’m fine” – as I do in some contexts to keep things simple, but burying the brutal honesty of my current circumstances will not only keep me from figuring out how to best move forward, but it’ll also create a distorted depiction for others to compare themselves too.
What ripple effect will my perfected self-presentation have on the silently striving souls who are ceaseless in their efforts to become better because they don’t believe they’re enough?
How can I create fulfilling connections if I’m not willing to expose my struggles?
While it feels good to gloat, I’ve come to find those close to me are reluctant to share their strifes when I won’t put forth the courage to admit my own.
I’m binging on Brené Brown books and doing my best to embrace the messy middle. I’m starving for control but mustering up the appetite when I can to embrace the delicious ambiguity of my piecemeal life.
I’m worn down. I’m weary. I’m waves of hope and anxiety and depression that viciously clash against the old reassuring rhyme my mother once told me to predict the unwieldy weather:
“Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky in morning, sailors give warning.”
Perhaps, at least, she was right in giving insight to the fact that the dawning of a new day doesn’t always equate to sunny, calm seas. That rest and darkness and dreary warm glows of light can prove to be places of peace – and even delight at times. Because we can’t keep sailing without rest. Even when it seems like we’re gliding along, the movement will rock us eventually.
Amidst the upheavals of uncertainty, I’m throwing my anchor down.
I’m pressing pause and owning up to my necessary hiatus.
I’m taking time to face the fictional narratives I’ve been telling myself for far too long that’ve corrupted my character into an antagonist who’s torn apart my envisioned life plot.
I’m stepping out of the story I’ve been so set on completing to question the author and the demanding deadlines she’s imposed.
