A thing I’ve noticed about sharing words instead of hoarding them, secreted away inaccessible: a freedom that it brings, a weightlessness. Buoyed by anxiety, first and then by relief. Eventually there is enough distance that they are no longer me. They are over there and I am over here. They are unchanging, while I am moving on to the next thought, story, string of words.
I realized I have only ever willingly shared parts of myself that I know for sure are good, will be well-received – things that carried no risk of rejection or conflict. Never forced someone I love to engage the possibility that while I am good, perhaps what I have to share is less so, is challenging, is uncomfortable. It feels rounder, roomier, the moon closer to full than its slim and half hidden fingernail presence.
Inviting people in to my space, where the words hang out, where my strange thoughts demand expression. The risk calls out the bravest heart I have. The reward is in the aftermath of daring exposure: the learning that safety is highly overrated.