Authenticity has been a struggle throughout the last year
(or life time, as a people pleaser, if I am honest). Fifteen months ago, my
authenticity was tied up in one person: my life partner, my love. Not that I was inauthentic with others, but
my guarded heart has always kept most people at arm’s length. Chris was
different. As his wife, I needed him to
know me completely. My priority for authenticity was satisfied in him.
He made it easy. He accepted me. He embraced my weirdness
and never seemed to take it personally when I had one of my quirky, anxiety-ridden
moments.
Now that Chris is gone, I grapple with what it means to be
authentic in a more universal sense. I find myself in an impossible situation:
fearing that grieving too much will make me pathetic, and that not grieving
openly enough will imply that I don’t love Chris. I want everyone to trust my
capacity for resiliency, yet I feel like that often comes at the expense of
mitigating how painfully I miss Chris.
Grief is so messy. I have wanted so badly to grieve well, despite knowing that there is no such thing. The people-pleasing, perfectionist in me wants everyone to see my strength. I want to live up to everything beautiful that Chris was in life—to embrace his mirth and determination. The truth is, I fail at those things daily.
There is power in saying that this is hard—in wanting to
communicate that openly. I want people to know that it’s okay to struggle, to
wrestle with pulling together a broken heart, to weep farewell to dreams. Those are real
emotions that come at the cost of loving someone as much as I loved (and still
love) Chris. And I know I am not alone in sorrow, or silence.
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| Great quote from one of my favorite authors, Dr. Brene Brown. |
For me, it is difficult to articulate my sadness because I
fear the burden I place on others. I don’t want anyone to worry about me—I cannot
control that worry when my struggles are so openly acknowledged, so I hold back.
I feel these things because they are mine to feel, not because I desire
affirmation or protection from anyone else. I will be okay, my worst moment is
behind me.
The problem with being authentic is it leaves me vulnerable—even
to the best intentions. Sometimes I post lyrics or photos that make me think of
Chris. I fear being coddled because I am the sad, young widow. I am undoubtedly
self-conscious about people trying to offer encouragement. My expressions are
not cries for help, rather statements that I hope connect my experience with
others.
Connection is what all of this boils down to. I want other
people to know their strength through hearing that this is really difficult,
but I am surviving. I am thriving in a new kind of normal. And it’s okay to be
messy. The more I learn about pain, the more I realize that most of the time
people are uncomfortable with pain because it cannot be fixed. Grief is
painful, but it is also immensely beautiful in all the love it holds. Trying to
fix the pain takes away from the realness of the love. It’s okay to just let it be. The greatest gift (in my opinion) is
allowing someone to genuinely experience emotion without trying to take
something away. I am guilty of trying to help others feel better too, but I am working
toward just honoring that pain for what it is.
When I met Chris, something in me wanted to be known for all
my complexity. I craved authenticity. My ability to let someone else see me for
me allowed me to experience genuine happiness. In the present, I am trying to
rediscover that desire for authenticity in a new way. I am trying to let go of judgment
and concern myself more with what matters most to me. It is another way for me to keep Chris’s
spirit alive, and make our story more than a memory.
Note: For more eloquent, coherent thoughts on authenticity and vulnerability, check out brenebrown.com-- her books are fantastic and have been very helpful to me.
