The Thing About Truth

Is my “yes” coming from a dark corner or from the light in my heart?

This is Post #6 in the Journey to Truth Series

JANUARY 17, 2024:

I learned early in life that it was much easier to just go along in order to get along. To keep my thoughts and my feelings to myself, because no one really cared anyway.

I carried this untruth into my adulthood. Into every failed, dysfunctional relationship. Where the price I paid in order to be loved was silence; acceptance of unacceptable behavior.

And then one day, in February 2020, a small book arrived in the mail. A required reading for my upcoming 200-hour yoga teacher training. A book that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would change the course of my life. One that would remove the blinders from my eyes and lay before me the raw, naked truths I’d spent a lifetime ignoring in favor of the lies. The ones that offered the promise of Happily Ever After.

But here’s the thing about truth. You have to be ready for it. Ready to acknowledge and own all the orphaned parts of yourself. To be braver than you’ve ever been. To remove the blinders and open your eyes. The truth asks you to step forth, to see and feel the truth of your devastation. And to allow yourself to fold. Bend. Break.

The truth is not to be stepped into lightly. But, despite the fact that you can never fully prepare yourself for what comes after, you know…you know, it will be worth it.

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February 17, 2020:

During the days after the fire, I never talked with my husband about how I was feeling. I just kept my feelings to myself and hoped he didn’t notice. But he did. He noticed. We just didn’t talk about it. We never talked about the things that mattered. And, really, how could I have even begun to explain something I didn’t understand myself. How could I tell him that his wife had died in the fire? That the woman he slept next to at night was just a ghost?

His way of showing me love was to send me to a beautiful resort in Whitefish for a few days. And hope that it would fix what was wrong. It was kind, generous, and I gratefully accepted. Because he needed a break from me.

I needed a break from me, too.

On the way to the resort, I drop my sister off at the airport. It is still dark outside. I hope she is glad she came. I tried to act happy. I really did. Because somewhere deep inside I was happy that she’d come. Even if I didn’t feel it.

We went to the hot springs and cooked dinners together and worked on the new house. And we talked like we had since we were kids and our beds were just inches apart. Honestly. Deeply. From the soul. We talked about everything except about how I am really feeling. I don’t want her to be sad for me. To hurt for me. I never want to see her hurt. She’s had enough of that in this lifetime. I wipe my eyes and watch as she waves a final goodbye. I wave back. Whisper, I love you.

I pull away from the curb. Steer the car toward my destination: Freedom.

I check into my room. There is construction going on in the parking lot. And the window is broken. Won’t close. I am filled with anger. And disappointment. I need quiet. Quiet quiet QUIET!

I should call the front desk. Ask for another room. But of course I won’t do that.

I never do.

Because, somewhere along the line I learned that life is much easier if I just go with the flow. So instead of asking for a different room, I unpack my things, wishing I were brave enough to ask for what I want.

I get a text message. It’s from Sierra. The hotel front desk manager. She asks how the room is. My heart beats hard. I summon my courage and tell her. Ask for a room across the hall. She immediately replies, says she has another room for me. Across the hall.

The bed in the new room looks comfy. Inviting. I draw the shades and crawl in. It is noon. But who cares? I cry. I feel sad and happy at the same time. I am free. At least for a couple of days. No responsibilities. No one to take care of. Just me. I need this.

I fall asleep. A rare and precious nap. When I awake it is dinner time. I am starving. I order a burger with a fried egg, cheese and avocado. And fries. It is amazing.

After dinner I pull out one of the books I am reading for my upcoming 200-hour yoga teacher training. The Yamas and Niyamas: Exploring Yoga’s Ethical Practice, by Deborah Adele. It is a small book, and I am excited to read it. I think (hope), it will help me make sense of everything that’s happened in the last year…in the entirety of my life. Help me find myself.

Bring me peace.

I open the book randomly. Land on the chapter called Satya, Truthfulness. This is good. I am big on honesty. Big on telling the truth.

So long as it doesn’t have to do with speaking my own truth.

I read the first couple of pages. And then, on the third page, I get to this:

“What is driving you to…silence yourself or say yes when you mean no? What is so dangerous in the moment about the truth that you are choosing to lie?”

The pen in my hand quivers. Tears course down my cheeks, plop onto the paper, smearing the ink into something resembling a Rorschach ink blot.

Childhood.

The silence started in childhood. At first glance I think I must have learned it from my mother. She was quiet. Never spoke her truth. Asked for far too little from life. It was her only imperfection. At least from my perspective.

And I think it is true. We emulate those we love. Learn their ways. Make them our own. Consciously or unconsciously, daughters grow up and become their mothers.

And they marry their fathers.

Despite the fact that I could see my mother’s pain, feel my mother’s pain as if it were my own, I became her. Kind and generous and sensitive. But blind to my own beauty. My own worth.

And I grew up to marry my father.

The truth of these words levels me. I clutch the stuffed animal my mother crocheted with her beautiful arthritic hands and sob into it. I cry for me and for her. Because she died with her truth still in her. And I worry that I will, too. That I will never find my voice, find the courage to speak my deepest truth.

“When we habitually silence and distort ourselves we begin to lose our lust for life. There is a settling for less than we had hoped for.”

I nearly choke on my sobs. I have done this. I have become a settler. And I have lost my lust for life.

Desperate for consolation I climb out of bed, fall to my knees, press my hands to my heart and pray.

Divine Mother,

Please make me brave. Teach me to love myself, and to believe that I deserve more than what I ask for from life. Give me the courage to know and to speak my deepest truths. All of them. So that I can become whole. Help me find my voice so that I may someday help other’s find theirs.

Love, Me