Safe to be Vulnerable

Today someone asked the question, "How do you make someone feel comfortable when they tell you they don't want to come to church anymore?" And what came to mind, was to let them know they're not alone. Some days I don't want to come to church anymore either. Sometimes my doubts overwhelm my faith. Sometimes I feel like I have more questions than answers. Sometimes it feels like that lack of balance should knock me over and take me away from the answers that I do have. And I sometimes feel very very alone in feeling that way. And sometimes, going to church and being surrounded by people who are either very good at faking it, or are filled with more faith than doubt leaves me feeling like I don't belong. And I get that there is a pressure at church to focus on the positive, and to fill people with light, but... there's something that just doesn't fit right. You often hear people say that the church is like a spiritual hospital. Hospitals aren't full of healthy people. They're full of sick people trying to get better. And churches aren't full of perfect people. They're full of imperfect people trying to get better. But when I walk into a hospital, I know that the people there aren't healthy. I know that they have problems just like me. And they are all unique problems, and I don't know who has the same problem as me, and who has a very different problem, but I know we all need help to get better, or find an answer, or understand the answer we've been given. And church isn't quite like that. It's not so easy to remember that everyone there needs help of some kind or another because we can't see it. But if we can't see it, maybe we could at least talk about it. 

One of the things I said in response to this question, was that in my experience, people are more willing to be vulnerable with you, when you are first willing to be vulnerable with them. Maybe that's not fair, but it's true. And when I find places where it is safe to be vulnerable, I find that that is a place where I want to be. There is nothing that I crave more in this life than the space and the people with whom I can feel safe being vulnerable with. And if we could make church feel like a space where it is safe to be vulnerable, safe to admit things like "I'm not so sure I even want to be here"... then maybe more people would want to be there in the first place. 

I mentioned that to me, it is important that when I feel prompted to share something at church, that I do so, even when it feels vulnerable. I try to prioritize being vulnerable. Because I have been in the meetings where someone shared something vulnerable, and it made me feel safe, and loved, and not alone. It made me feel at home and at peace and like I was in the right place. And if I can do that for even one person, then I have done something to repay that moment of safety that was offered to me through someone else's vulnerability. 

And I provided an example. I mentioned sharing in a church meeting that I was gay. Because it felt applicable to the lesson, and it was the most authentic and vulnerable thing I could do in that moment. And it felt important to be true to that. And I could have gotten my point across today without sharing that story. And it would have been fine. But it felt like a way to say "Here, this is what I mean. I'm giving you an example by being vulnerable and sharing this. It's okay to let people see you for who you are outside the cookie cutter version we think people want to see." Being vulnerable creates a space, where other people can do so too. And what I shared today felt good and it felt right, and I had no fear in sharing it. And that was empowering, for a moment.

But after a moment of awkward silence, I came away from that comment, on the fence as to whether it was a good thing that I shared or not. Did the shock factor take away from the value of what I had to say, or did it add to it? I don't know. And the silence made me want to bolt. I wanted to leave and never look back. Which to me... just reinforces the need to help people see that they are loved for what makes them different, and not just what makes them the same. That's not to say that I didn't feel loved in that meeting. Just that I was surrounded by people who didn't know what to say. And I totally understand and relate to not knowing what to say. But feeling like the elephant in the room is never a comfortable thing. But maybe we just need to worry a little less about knowing the perfect thing to say, and focus a little more on communicating what's in our hearts. And for me, when people choose to share their vulnerable with me, what goes through my mind is "I feel so honored that you would share that with me. Thank you." And sometimes, at least in the moment, I don't need anyone to say anything. Sometimes I just need a hug. Or for someone to look in my eyes, with the certainty that says “You are seen. And I still love you.”

But I didn't bolt. I figured I would do my time, and wait until I had paid my expected pleasantries and then leave as soon as I had fulfilled the bare minimum expectation of awkward small talk. But I actually had very pleasant conversations. In part because one person made an effort to engage me in conversation when they could have averted their eyes and avoided contact, and that ease of conversation seemed to spread to the rest of the table I think. And for that, I am grateful. And nobody said anything to me about what I had shared. And in some ways I wish someone had, because sometimes it feels like the elephant in the room... but in other ways I was grateful to just feel normal despite what I shared. We've all heard Emily say that one before. It's nice to feel normal. I think we all want that. And feeling not normal... seems to be the real normal that we rarely speak aloud. And maybe that's the real thing that needs to be celebrated. It's normal to not be normal. And today, I am grateful for all the spaces and people that make me feel safe to not be normal, so I can walk through the uncomfortable spaces without feeling any less than. 

In the oft-repeated words of a friend of mine “You are loved. You are wanted. And normal is different for everybody.” Maybe you need those words, just like I do.

Privilege

I was recently listening to a book titled “Uncomfortable Conversations with a Black Man” by Emmanuel Acho in preparation for book club night. There’s a chapter about white privilege and while I won’t say it’s a perfect comparison or anything, I found myself emoting with what he was saying, but in the context of how I feel as someone who identifies as gay. 

Statements like these:

“Privilege is the power of feeling normal”

“It’s the silent reinforcement of being able to walk into a store and see its main display show products that cater to you”

“It’s the ability to turn on the TV and see people who look like you represented in all walks of life”

“Privilege is the omnipresent benefit of the doubt”

“It’s the safety of moving through the world without being profiled”

“Imagine having to avert your eyes so you don’t make a [woman] uncomfortable”

“Imagine always having to be on guard to gauge whether you are being perceived as a threat or are in some way playing into some [person’s] negative image or idea of you”

These are all things I emote with. I relate to feeling this way. The thought that I had was that anyone who is in a minority, especially a minority that the majority historically holds some kind of bias against, can relate to. 

Something I hear straight people say A LOT is that they don’t spend very much time thinking about their sexuality and that it’s not a part of their daily experience. This is said as a way to express their confusion and frustration with gay people who seemingly “over-focus” on this aspect of their lives. Honestly it comes across as a bit patronizing. Like “I am better than you because I don’t waste my time with things like that.” Not to say that everyone means it that way, but sometimes that’s how it hits. And while I understand the attitude, I also believe that this attitude comes from a place of privilege. There is less need to weigh and evaluate your actions, thoughts and feelings when you are surrounded by people like you and the belief that you are normal. 

It can be something as simple as sitting down to watch a chic-flic with a group of girls and knowing someone is going to comment on how attractive the male character is, and that person can trust that most everyone will nod and agree, but yourself knowing or feeling like if you said the same thing about the female lead, all that would follow is awkward silence. And maybe a pity comment from someone trying to support you but you know they don’t feel the same way. That’s the kind of moment that makes you feel isolated, alone, taboo.

I am still trying to figure myself out. I am still trying to feel comfortable in my skin. I am still trying to feel like who I am and how I feel doesn’t change how people feel about me. In some ways I still feel like that awkward middle school girl that I thought I had outgrown. 

One question I am occasionally presented with is “Why do you have to talk about this?” For this question I like something from Meghan Decker’s book “Tender Leaves of Hope: Finding Belonging as LGBTQ Latter-day Saint Women,” 

“Generally, ‘coming out’ is more about healing and trust than advocacy.”

I am trying to heal from years of shame. I am trying to trust you. I am trying to trust myself. 

Feelings

 I used to think that healing from being sexually abused meant no longer feeling emotional when the subject came up. I thought being able to feel like nothing triggered me meant that I was over it. I thought it was better to feel nothing than to feel sad. But the thought occurred to me recently, that when I tell people about what happened… they usually have some form of an emotional response. Whether it shows on their face while I’m talking to them about it or not, gears are turning in their head, thoughts are forming, and emotions register like sadness, grief, anger, maybe even confusion, guilt or worry. And those things happen even if they have never experienced anything akin to my trials themselves. Those feelings come even if they have nothing to heal from in regards to the subject. The feelings themselves aren’t indicative of healing or not. The feelings are part of the human condition. Part of being empathetic. Part of loving one another. Part of putting yourself in another person’s shoes and realizing what it would be like for you to walk in them. And not many people would recommend to the person listening to the story, that they distance themselves so far from things that they no longer feel emotion. You can’t get wrapped up in it. But losing your ability to feel those things isn’t good either. And me feeling those same things when I think back on my life doesn’t mean I haven’t healed from them. It just means I’m human. And that is okay and it is good.

Feelings are never innately bad. Feeling sad is not bad. Feeling anger is not bad. And feeling happy is not the only good emotion out there. I guess it’s another one of those lessons in “moderation in all things.” But we just can’t get lost in those feelings, any of them. Or give away our self control while we feel them. I have never felt more lost than when I felt completely disconnected from my feelings. I think at this point that I would rather feel depressed than feel nothing. Because to feel depressed is still to feel human. Feeling nothing was just empty. 

I recently completed a training on protecting children from abuse. And it has been updated since the last time I’d taken it. Honestly the new version was mildly triggering. But I suppose it made me feel compassion. It made me feel protective. It made me feel hopeful for the future. It made me sad these trainings are necessary. It made me feel a shared bond with the scared, ashamed, and sad faces depicted. It made me realize that while bad things happen, and those that make them happen will be held responsible… there will always be people who can love you. Even if you haven’t found them yet. 

And all the feelings hold a place in teaching us in this life. We can hold every emotion in our hands and hearts when it’s their turn. But when it’s time to put them down, we need to learn to put them back on the shelf, and not throw them away, because they are just as important as the emotions that we like. And it’s okay to come back to them. It’s okay to share them. It’s okay to cling to them for a while. As long as we don’t hold on so tight we forget how to feel the other things.