becoming real

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything for anyone other than myself. I have tens of unpublished essays in my Medium drafts from the last several years—some of them are not bad. But reading through them in the wee hour of a sleepless night, I quickly realized why I never published them.

In one, I wrote about the platitude “God gives His hardest battles to his strongest warriors.” It’s not my least favorite mantra, but it’s in the bottom three for me. I couldn’t articulate well what it is that is so wrong about it to me, but neither could I see why someone would offer such feeble words in a time of need.

While I was writing, I was actually thinking about the person who said that to me and how idiotic the whole ordeal was. It ended up being a cringe sermon about why certain cliches are silly, as are the people who say them, but ultimately suffering is piety. Yikes. I came off incredibly condescending while trying to write about heavy subjects that need a great deal of compassion. My heart was wrong and so my essay was all wrong—the bitterness behind my words shone through and made my own sentiments ring hollow.

People who can write well about the human condition have a few things in common. It’s not that their hearts are totally pure—writing can absolutely give shape and meaning to one’s own pain—it’s that they’re radically honest about their experiences. They don’t counterfeit their emotions or thoughts. Sure, there are plenty of writers who might be scoundrels or dishonest in their personal lives, but they’re still able to recognize authenticity and give it immortality through their words. Perhaps I would have been better off trying to examine the origin of my own harshness rather than attempting to wax poetic on the nature of suffering. The former would have at least been genuine. And why read anything else?

We should really strive to be genuine in all things, not just writing essays. Although, essay writing can be a good way to coax out hidden things. It’s human nature to want to hide and protect ourselves from the humiliation of being fully seen. We cover ourselves with witticisms and trinkets. But it’s at odds with the secret burning desire that I believe resides in every heart to be real, to be known, and loved because of it.

Becoming real—fully human— is not figuring out what ill placed cliche to say to someone who’s grieving, but sitting in silence with them while they weep. It’s making food for the couple across the street who just had their first baby. It’s saying “I’m sorry” for snapping at a family member who was just trying to help. It’s realizing one’s own arrogance and deciding to have quiet humility instead. It’s being less insular and more outward. It’s loving, and trying, and doing that makes us less spectral and more real, filled with color and light.

Again and again, as the smell of another meal to give away fills the house, I pull away more lifeless stems of coldness and selfishness. Maybe the seeds of mercy and compassion can now finally take root. Maybe I’ll become real someday too.