Is it brave to simply be human?

It is 8:40 pm on a Tuesday night, a time that most of my friends would joke is “past my bedtime.” I’m sitting alone at a local overlook of the New York City skyline, which my small North Jersey town has affectionately taken to calling “The View.” Although a slightly infamous location given the rowdy passersby and what appears to be a constant army of mosquitoes guarding the premises, I’ve always loved the view. I’d go there every few days to catch the sunrise during quarantine in an attempt to quiet what was, at that point, my racing mind.

Tonight I sit here peacefully. I think about 20 people have walked past me in the last 10 minutes. High school girls on their way to a mid-week summer house party and couples bringing their dogs on the last walk of the day. I don’t meet their eyes but I can feel each group grow quiet as they pass me.

My feet dangle off the cement wall that keeps onlookers from falling into the jungle of lush greenery that grows below. The air is warm. The kind of warmth that kisses your skin lightly, and doesn’t hang around for too long. The kind of warm that feels familiar and safe. The moon is pink, reflecting the vibrant hues of the fires currently ravaging Canadian forests.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the moon looked beautiful. I’d think the pink moon was a gift from the solar system, but knowing where its glow comes from certainly makes me wonder about what made it so beautiful to me in the first place. Beauty without context is still beauty, I suppose.

As I sit on the ledge, my feet still dangle childishly - only now my legs are being attacked by the hoard of mosquitoes policing the 10 square feet around me. I don’t want to swat at them, but I also don’t care to move.

I open my phone to an inundation of notifications. To instagram’s credit, I didn’t have to look long before I saw that my dear friend @miranda.mckeon had shared a blog post telling something of a story about me. Well, about us.

For anyone reading my blog who isn’t familiar with Miranda’s story, well, I’ll direct you to her blog (www.MirandaMcKeon.com). But here’s a painfully oversimplified summary: at the beginning of this summer, Miranda was diagnosed with breast cancer at age nineteen. She has taken to documenting her battle with cancer on her social media, effectively creating an archive of strength, courage, and pure humanity that will exist to inspire millions for many years to come. I will never be able to do her story justice through my writing; it is too powerful, too personal, and too Miranda for anyone to tell it but her. It is only through her own words that you, the reader, can even begin to feel and understand the inner workings of her heart and mind.

The blog post she published, titled “The Buzz of Vibrancy in The Air”, talked at length about her experience with vulnerability. She wrote about how being diagnosed with breast cancer has led her to a newfound oneness with her audience that she never thought imaginable — a cross continental connection forged by the embrace of vulnerability and her decision to share her story with the world so candidly. ⠀

She writes:

“One of my best friends Cailin started a blog today (www.ownyourstory.community) and it has me doing a lot of reflecting. Some background: amidst battling an eating disorder and facing the darkness of depression that so many know too well, she took to telling her story on Instagram @kalewithcail, sharing her wounds and finding healing along the way. Rarely do we see wounds that are still in the process of healing. Guided by a deep belief in the beauty of vulnerability, she has committed her platform to being a judgement-free zone for nurturing our hurt, healing our open wounds with the power of love, and wearing those scars with pride. She is a beautiful, badass, light to the world, and I am proud to call her my friend.

We were talking at lunch the other day about how a lot of people think that having struggled is embarrassing. People are ashamed to speak of what they’ve been through. Whether its financial struggles, health struggles, not knowing who you are struggles, the list goes on.

“ I believe this is because often times, there is an undertone that there is something you could have done to prevent your circumstances. You could have worked harder to get a better job and then you wouldn’t have faced homelessness. You could have talked to your friends and then you wouldn’t have struggled with depression. Why didn’t you work harder? Why didn’t you reach out and find help? Why didn’t you live a healthier lifestyle? Most times, no one is to blame for their struggles.

I find it incredibly interesting when I am called brave for being so open on the internet, allowing people to see into my softness. Miranda and I agreed that sharing our stories doesn’t make us feel brave so much as it makes us feel human. ⠀
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I don’t feel brave for sharing my story. Really, I feel light. I feel inspired by the voice within me that calls me to share my story free of shame. I feel proud that I invite others to do the same no matter the genre, the length, or the details of their story.⠀
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I get asked: how do you do it? People tell me “I could never be so open.” Now, don’t get me wrong - I know that Instagram isn’t exactly the first place people would start practicing vulnerability. But what about in your homes? What about on the long drives with your friends when you seem to have exhausted every topic of drama or excitement? What about to the person you love? What will it take for you to show all of yourself to even just one person? Even if that one person is you.

I’ve received DMs from friends and strangers alike telling me that they want to do what I do - they want to share their hearts and thoughts and writing, but they just aren’t ready. So, to anyone who has ever wished they could get to writing or speaking or singing or whatever your choice of self-expression is and share their story, I have news for you. You will never feel ready. You will never feel ready to put your heart on the line. You will never feel fully ready to turn your tear-stained pages over to people who might tear them up instead of staining them with tears of their own. You may never feel like your story is much of a story; you may feel as though your struggles are somehow monumentally simpler and less notable than mine or than Miranda’s or than your friend who has a therapist or that guy you read a book about. Remember, it doesn’t matter if I’m drowning in 30 feet of water and the guy next to me is drowning in 10 feet of water - we’re both still drowning.

I promise you, your story is a story regardless of its contents. It is a story regardless of its page count or the titles of each chapter. Your story is beautiful because it is yours and yours alone.

So, why do I tell my story? When did I feel even slightly ready to share my whole self with the world? Like I said, I didn’t wake up one morning and think “wow, the sun is shining and the grass is green - today I will tell the internet my deepest fears.”

It isn’t a feeling of readiness that will find you. It is a feeling of hopefulness. It is the feeling that every time you share even a sliver of your heart, you are changing more lives than you will ever know. It is being so true to yourself and your soul that the thought of people you know sending your posts around doesn’t disrupt your peace.

So when people ask me how I’m so brave, I ask myself the same question: How do I scribe my soul into captions and blog posts knowing that strangers will read it, that people I go to school with will see it, that every crush I’ve ever had and every acquaintance I’ve ever known will have access to my heart? Aren’t I terrified?
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And then I answer: Plainly, no, I’m not terrified. I’m not terrified because when you believe that you will never be accepted for who you truly are, you deprive yourself the opportunity to be truly known. You deny the entrance of people who will come into your life and cradle your heart until it is mended. You spoil the surprise of finding out just how much love the world has to offer by never believing in that love at all. ⠀
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It is scary to simply be human sometimes. Because being human is choosing to be soft in a world that begs us to put walls around our heart. It is choosing to be kind to those who have hurt us, because we know that they too are hurting, and choosing to be grateful for the fact that we have been gifted the ability to tend to the scars on someone else’s broken heart. Being human is choosing to care when the world tells you that you shouldn’t or that caring isn’t cool; choosing to be a light instead of matching someone’s coldness because that’s what we’re supposed to do.

Mary Oliver writes in her poem “Wild Geese”:

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.

Being human is not easy - but I assure you, it is worth it. Because those who choose to simply be human - those who choose to wear their heart on their sleeve and let, as Mary Oliver says, the soft animal of their body love what it loves, will leave this lifetime with an exhausted heart, worn-out from the overwhelming amount of love it has known. And that is the mark of someone who has truly lived.

The night is quiet, with only the sound of the harmonizing cicadas filling the air. I swing my legs back over the ledge, placing them on solid ground and looking at the glowing pink moon. It’s 9:30 p.m., far past my “bedtime.” I walk back to my house and take a cold shower to cleanse myself of the sweat that accompanies a humid summer night in New Jersey. I get into my bed, and as my eyelids grow heavy and my head sinks into my pillow, I feel a deep sense of gratitude - what a gift it is to simply be human.