dear hilary: that impossible brightness

Dear Hilary,

My question concerns (as most questions seem to) fear and love. For a long time, I was afraid to love, and then I was brave and fell deep into it, and then what I was most afraid of happened: I was too much, or I wasn’t enough. The end of it was confusing and tangled and I got hurt again and again, but I held on, thinking that I wanted to show him grace and love and forgiveness. The problem is, I didn’t show any of those things to myself, and now I’m so embarrassed and afraid of how hurt I got, how long I held on, and how badly I was willing to be treated. The question is, how do I forgive myself for that? How do I move through the fear of love ending and fall in love again, now that I know how the ending burns? How do I get over the fear of never falling in love again, which is partly what motivated me to hold on to the love I found for so long after it hurt me?

Love,
The Edge of Hope

Dear The Edge,

“It is not the critic who counts.” Can I ask you to go look this up? I won’t say more, but I will say click beyond Goodreads, beyond the quote itself (I’ll give it away – it’s Teddy Roosevelt), and down towards the bottom will be this name, Brene Brown, and if I say nothing to you in this, it’s just that you remind me of her mantra. This letter, this act of describing your question, this being willing to be you here in this space – that is what she calls daring greatly.

Today all I can think about is this time that Preston asked me something that flipped me upside down. “Are you,” he said, pausing over the words and over the rim of his mug (we were sitting in the living room), “always this unkind to yourself?” We were drinking coffee and going through my applications to graduate school and I was telling him with a lot of confidence that I was NOT going to get in and I should NEVER try and I should just quit and not be a philosopher or anything because everyone would find out I was a fraud and… then he asked that question. “Are you always this unkind to yourself?”

I got mad. I don’t really know why. Maybe because the truth doesn’t set you free before it royally pisses you off and arrives at the most inconvenient time and screw up all the plans you had for avoiding it. I hated the question, though, for what it pointed to in me: that my unkindness wasn’t towards others in that instance. It was towards me. It was shame and regret and hurt I piled on and on as a way to protect myself from potentially being rejected. “Who am I to apply to school X? Smart people apply there” or “Who am I to have loved so wildly? Only fools don’t realize what it costs…” or my personal favorite, “Who do I think I am to be enjoying such a good life? It won’t last!”  Unkindness asks that question, tries to protect us in a cocoon of doubt and embarrassment, tries to keep us from making what we think will be a mistake.

The cocoon is not where it is at. I mean, we all go there, we all build one, but maybe specifically here, when it comes to love and fear, I want to put up a big warning sign that says, BE KIND TO YOURSELF. I want to stamp it across every sign you see today. You do not need a cocoon of doubt or fear or embarrassment or shame. Because actually, in fact, I believe you are already stronger than the cocoon. I believe you are stronger without it.

Here, in love, the critic in you does not count. At all. In any way. You loved, and it ended, and it was terrifying and beautiful and tangled and ugly and hurt like hell and probably still does on some mornings (I have those days too). But the forgiving of yourself begins in a kindness to yourself. A basic, gut level kindness. A kindness that says, “I dared greatly. And now it hurts.” A kindness that says, “I was brave. I believed in love. It disappointed me that time.” A kindness that does not hide the truth – the real truth – which is not that you should be embarrassed or ashamed of loving, but the truth which is that you dared and even so it is complicated, and no blame or unkindness will clarify that paradox.

There is an impossible brightness to love: that paradox of daring and fear, of deep connection and also things not working out every time. That kind of love, falling in it, falling out of it, that is where you tell me you learned things about grace and forgiveness and love. I believe you did learn about those things. I believe now is the time to hold them in your hands and offer them back to yourself, not as warning for what not to do, not as judgment for how long you stayed or what you were or were not willing to do for this person, but as the gifts of that time. As the gifts of daring greatly. As the gifts of the impossible brightness of love.

You are already out here in the brightness, love. You don’t need the cocoon. You’re far too strong.

Love,
hilary

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6 thoughts on “dear hilary: that impossible brightness

  1. Pingback: Saturday reads | Dearly Beloved

  2. This is definately one of my favorite posts from this blog, and it speaks so perfectly to my life right now. Love it. Thank you so much for this, Hilary.

  3. I’ve thought a lot about this…so often we live in this place of wanting our life to begin. We sit in each season, dreaming of something better, dreaming of when the people that will be brought into my life or the experiences I will encounter. But when, I’m always looking forward, I’m never going to be living right here. I’m never going to be able to encounter the joy of be exactly where my feet are. I just love how you articulated this concept, just put it into words so beautifully.

  4. “Who do I think I am to be enjoying such a good life? It won’t last!” – this is the one that hits me. I think this whole letter is more about fear than love, maybe, or at least it’s about fear beyond the idea of love. Because I can’t enjoy life when I am afraid of it. Maybe, if you insert “love” where I wrote “enjoy”, then we’re back to where we started: fear and love.

    “…the truth doesn’t set you free before it royally pisses you off…” I can hear you saying this :)

  5. I had a friend ask me a similar version of Preston’s question and, exactly as Hilary describes, it flipped me absolutely upside down. I realized that I would never, ever, let anyone speak to me the way I speak to myself, and (perhaps even more painfully) that the way I spoke to myself was capable of drowning out all other loving voices. What a dangerous fact, but a fact it definitely is. Dear Edge of Hope, give yourself that gift of kindness, as Hilary so lovingly and wisely advises. Others can be kind to you, it is true, and this is also a gift, but you will never fully accept it if you have not given it to yourself first. So much love and prayers and hugs for you, and for Hilary too.

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