When I was very young I became separated from my mom in a Home Depot type store. I remember the acute anxiety I felt the minute I discovered I was lost. This was not alleviated by the loud beeping noises of the indoor fork lifts, bright lights, and endless aisles of vacancy and lumber. Finally a kind person who saw me sniveling led me up to the front, an announcement was made over the loudspeaker, and I was happily returned to my mother. When she later inquired why I hadn't asked someone for help, I said it was because I knew it was a do-it-yourself store so I thought I had to figure it out on my own.
True to the adage, old habits die hard.
I perambulated through the teenage years and young adulthood struggling to find the answer to what I thought was the first big question of life, "What should I major in?" The answers to the inner struggles were even more elusive. After flailing around on my own I consulted a therapist who didn't have the answers, and then became a therapist who didn't have the answers. Now I think we are here to learn the answers for ourselves but not by ourselves. There is maybe nothing more comforting or helpful than when after recounting your story to a friend, you hear the reassuring response of, "Yes, I know. I have that stamp to Crazytown in my passport." Our stories are a way to find that uniquely common thread that links us to humanity. But that thread remains invisible if we hide in fear or shame and do not reach out to one another with our vulnerabilities. I saw it written somewhere that tenderness is mighty. I am choosing to believe it's true.