Tuesday, June 30th, 2026
Once Upon a Time, I used to be fearless. I think I didn’t know better. I hadn’t yet encountered the consequences, real, or conjured out of a caustic social contract, of speaking my mind, of telling everyone exactly what I thought, and, really, how they ought to think as well.
I poured my heart out to men who didn’t deserve the time of day, because, well, they were human too, and I saw the sparkle shining amidst the rubbish that the world had made of them, and thought that if I showed my sparkle too, or just rolled up my sleeves and dug down deep enough into the muck and mire with my bare hands, I would have a solid chance at pulling the gemstones out in one piece, and would do so without soiling my petticoats. Or: petticoats wash — I would think — no problem. Nothing a little scrubbing can’t get out. Because we are all human after all, and we all want to connect, deeply, intensely, and with a fervor for life that I experience with each breath. I felt this in my bones, and I was taught, later, that they call this innocence, and I’d better learn to protect it; but not before learning the hard way.
I think that as I am writing, and looking back up at this topic, there is a bifurcation. Although what I’m about to say next probably applies to both. The first fork is the fearlessness I felt in the face of authority; in social settings, and arenas in which, I later discovered, I risked looks askance, ostracism, or at worse, official dismissal when voicing my reality: my observations, and my opinions — the latter, stemming from aforementioned observations, filtered through the lens of my life experience. In this area, through truly startling numbers of hard knocks and gettings-back-up, I feel I’ve at least learned to temper my truths into digestible formats that those around me can absorb. Which is better for me, because I affront less, and face significantly less backlash. And, usually, I still find my way around to saying what needs to be said. More on that another day. But it’s also good for those who might hear me, I think, because it means any information I may wish to transmit is more effectively received by those around me — those who I do, genuinely, care about, and wish to receive whatever value they might from my perspective. The truths are my gifts, I feel, and I have needed to gain skill in the wrapping job.
The other side of the fork is trickier, and I don’t feel I’ve really quite resolved things over there. It has to do with knowing how to come face-to-face with a man as an equal party in a dialogue; which means, I have no business digging down and rescuing his shining self through the muck, unless it is to be met with equal and opposite devotion in some way when I need it, and I fear I don’t know how to begin to ask for that quite yet, or even open myself to being receptive to it when it comes my way. It hit me just now – although I love to give of myself, I barely know how to request on my own behalf with any kind of vulnerability. I have learned to declare, to express, and even perhaps, to demand. But to request, open-heartedly, for what I wish to receive, and feel, and experience, and without turning it into a messy confessional: that is the tricky bit. That is the calibration of the second fork of the bifurcation that I haven’t yet mastered, and it feels scary, and vulnerable, and, quite frankly, unsafe. Because of the aforementioned fearlessness, and the pickles into which it has landed me.
I’ve forgotten what I told you I was going to say next, but I think it has something to do with coming back around to that innocence, and fearlessness, perhaps beyond even in spite of the experiences, but almost because of them. With more information, nuance, and clarity, and a better diagnostic eye to when speaking up will be constructive, and when it truly is just an attempt to feed my ego, or fill a void. And those two have an intricate and at times counter-intuitive relationship with how comfortable or uncomfortable a topic or stance might be, and the framing is also a part of the delicate dance.
I suppose I am building a muscle here, and it’s very tricky. This is not deadlift squats, this is targeted biomechanics training of the heart, the mind, and my use of language as the medium to translate those two into communication with the world outside my semi-permeable human membrane. In this practice, even the smallest, subtlest, most surgical movements matter.
I’m curious about your thoughts on the matter, and experiences, similar or distinct, that you’ve had down either of these two bifurcated-yet-connected pathways.
It’s a little nerve-wracking to write about this, but like the cabin windows being opened and letting fresh air in to blow around and rejuvenate things, I think my heart needs the same. 🌬️💕💞