My little worlds in one room: the conflict in our minds

We face a conflict: Do I stay connected to my body, or do I preserve the relationship that I’m in? The ability to be in relationship with people who approve of us and love us is so essential to our survival that we will sacrifice what’s happening inside of us to make sure that we are safe relationally.

Dr. Hilary McBride

I have this vision sometimes.

I’m standing at a podium, on a stage, in front of a large group of people. But they’re not just people. They are my people. My family, my friends, my husband, my kids, my coworkers, my church, my community, my exes, people from my past, and then some are complete strangers that snuck in the back out of curiosity. 

Seating is divided into opposing factions. As if each group has assigned seats next to the people most like them.

Each group feels like a little world of mine.

At some point in time, that little world may have been my whole world.

And then I grew, and changed, and saw.

There are times when I stand at the podium and I have everyone’s attention in the room.

There are smiles across their faces and acceptance in their posture towards me.

They’re pleased with what I’m saying. 

I feel good and worthy to be speaking when I see their delight.

And then there’s a shift.

One group, among the large sea of people, hears something I’ve said and gets up to leave. As they’re walking out, I feel their presence leaving the room. I watch their discontent and disapproval as they look back in disgust or with fear.

Part of me wants to leave with them.

Maybe they recognized something in me that I don’t.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Maybe I’m on the wrong path.

I start sweating. My voice gets shaky. I look uncomfortable.

But as the door shuts on that group’s exit, I look around again.

A lot of people stayed.

A lot of them are still smiling, still yearning for my next word.

So I stay. I keep speaking.

And as I continue, some others get up and leave.

I try not to notice.

I keep speaking.

Do I need to speak a different language to each group?

They all know me in different capacities.

Some know me at my worst. Some know me at my best. Some just know the superficial parts of me that I’ve allowed them to see.

How do I keep them all in the room?

And then something happens.

These opposing groups of people, separated by all sorts of things — their upbringing, their belief system, the color of their skin, their political party, their fears — they start moving in. They take a seat next to each other.

I smile. My fear breathes a sigh of relief.

Controlling their perception of me is not what they needed.

They just needed truth and space and time. Not a watered-down version of me.

Just when I think I’ve got it all figured out, I look down at the front row.

There sits my husband and my kids.

They’ve been there the entire time.

They are staring at me wide-eyed. Taking in every word. Every inflection. Every move.

They look at me with wonder. With curiosity. With conviction.

That’s when I realize, they saw my fear. My sadness when others left the room. My unrest when I was fumbling my words. My doubt in myself when the vote in me wasn’t unanimous.

They experienced my pain, and they stayed.

At first, I feel ashamed about that.

Then I remember:

My posture will direct their posture towards others in the room and outside of it. My relationship with myself will be their guide to how they treat themselves — when others don’t approve, when they make mistakes, and when they feel like giving up.

They need to watch me work through those moments of tension. Because they’ll have those moments. And instead of leaving the room with the groups that didn’t stay, exiting the stage when they feel unsure, or closing the book on their own truth, I want them to stand.

In their fear, in their sadness, in their unrest, in their doubt.

I want them to know that they can stay standing.

And that those who choose to stay in the room are their people.

And they will lean in when they need to.

————

My life has been a collection of small worlds that never really fit into one.

For the majority of my life, I have pivoted my posture to be most pleasing and most attentive to the unhappiest group in my orbit.

I desperately wanted them to stay, curating myself to be more of what they desired.

If they are delighted in me, I must be on the right path, I thought.

But the fight to win their love and acceptance comes with a high cost.

And that cost is me and my integrity.

I have lived, what feels like, whole lives relentlessly running after them. Begging for their approval, for their grace, for them to see what I have to offer.

I am tired of leaving the rest of the room behind in my pursuit of a conditional love that is rooted in truths that aren’t mine.

It has developed a duality in me that I don’t want to pass on.

In my life, that room has been empty and that room has been overflowing with people. Sometimes, the wrong people.

I’ve learned that it is not my job to keep it overflowing. That doesn’t make me more whole.

It is my one and only assignment to stare straight down at that front row and speak truth into their bones.

The other sections are open to come and go.

Their decision to stay is no longer my burden to carry nor manipulate to go my way.

Those that want to know me and love me, despite our differences, will stay.

And they won’t stay ridden with disgust and fear.

They will stay curious to learning something they don’t know and teaching something that they do.

They will lean in.

To stay standing at the podium is tiring. My legs get weak, my soul feels heavy.

But my love for that front row won’t let me sit. They are my new vision. The world that takes up my whole heart. The legacy that requires all of me.

So I’ll keep standing. For them. For truth. For unity. And for every version of me that got me to that damn podium.