The other night, after kids had been put to bed and Husband and I finally had a moment to ourselves, we found ourselves circling my latest burden, trying not to pinpoint it directly (it felt a little dangerous). We talked around the message I feel I have been given to share—one of love and nonviolence and hope and belonging to yourself and showing up and being you. But even while we talked around it, my eyes got blurry, my throat tight.
I could not even talk around it without crying.
And I finally had to say, “Sometimes it feels like there is too much asked of me. I’m tired of getting beaten up. Maybe I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Because it’s true; sometimes I don’t. I don’t want to be out there in the public eye, heralding hope and justice and love and dignity for all people, only to be blasted by those who disagree with the basic tenets of humanity.
He looked at me carefully, gauging my emotional stability, feeling around in my heart, assessing the words I’d just said to determine whether or not I meant them. He said, “Your message is important.”
“I know,” I said.
“To a lot of people.”
“I know.”
“You have too much love for people to let your message go unheard. To stop using your voice.” He turned me around to face him.
He said, “You’re brave.”
He said, “You’re strong.”
He said, “You’re adaptable but resilient.”
There is a paradoxical space between taking a stand and yet remaining pliable. Standing for something brings you to a place where you must cultivate both a tender heart and a fierce constitution. What this means, for me, is that I must remain, always, rooted in love—doing what I do, speaking what I speak, writing what I write in love, with love, for love—and yet I must shore myself up with courage and strength for the firestorm that will follow my message.
I must see the people, not the ideas those people keep. I must respond, not react. I must put on my love and wrap it around myself as tightly as is needed, tying enough knots so it never slips off. This is keeping a tender heart.
And yet I must draw boundaries around myself, to say you do not have access to me here, where you are trying to hurt my heart. I must stand strong against the criticism and judgment that hurtles my way. I must believe in what I say, and even if it is the kind of message I’d rather run away from and leave others to speak—I must stand up and speak.
If we cannot remain tender, we risk losing our greatest weapon: love. And if we cannot remain fierce, we risk losing our greatest asset: our identity.
May we hang on, desperately, ferociously, tenaciously to both.
(Photo by Jessica Lewis on Unsplash)
