25. A people person? Me???

There’s something wondrous happening as I move through my new world.

Again and again, I’m met with a kind of softening—kind eyes suddenly dropping their armor, strangers telling me their stories right there in the grocery store checkout line, talking to me mid-story as if we’re old friends.

There are the meaningful, heartfelt hugs from near-strangers. There are the unexpected warm, held gazes from passers-by.

And there are the new friends who have said “I love you” in a way I longed for from those who were supposed to say it that way long ago.

This experience of a softer human world surprises me. Baffles me, even.

What exactly is happening? What is this?

Is it me?

Have I really changed so much that my once-armored heart is now softly melting out into the world and inviting softness in return?

I have no idea, but it feels like a gift I can say a whole-hearted YES to without having to analyze or understand it.

It just is, and all I can do is accept it with a great big “thank you.”

And pay it forward every chance I get.

No one had ever called me a people person before.

But recently, someone did.

It happened on a Wednesday.

Because on Wednesdays, I volunteer at our local senior lunch program. I’m the lady who greets the seniors as they come in the door, manages sign-ups and handles donations.

But it turns out that I’m also the lady who asks about everyone’s week, how they’re recovering from surgery, and what flavor of pie they might bake later that day. And the lady who shares hugs, holds the door open, and listens to stories of life’s aches and joys—stories of children and grandchildren, long ago heartaches and simple everyday pleasures.

The dearest of the elderly ladies recently looked me in the eyes, holding my hands lovingly in hers, and said:

“You’re really a people person, aren’t you?”

My answer shocked me down to the tip of my toes.

“I am,” I said without the slightest hesitation.

When I told Jason this story, he looked at me like I’d grown a nice new pair of horns. Because I’ve always been a deep introvert. I haven’t been a people person. For much of my life, I wasn’t so sure I liked most people very much.

I loved nights in with a good book. I craved solitude in the wilderness with an ache I barely understood. And when I visited rural Japan and took in its reverence for peace, quiet and beauty, I fell madly in love.

“A whole country that gets me,” I thought with relief.

I still love solitude, books, and loads of time in nature. I still need alone time to reset and come home to myself when I get overwhelmed and dysregulated. And I still think Japan’s relationship to peace and quiet is beautiful.

But now I also love being with people. Even strangers. Even groups of strangers.

Now, I’m still an introvert but I’m also a people person.

So what changed?

What changed is that I was sent to my knees in desperation, lost myself, and came face to face with the luminous, mysterious part of me and with the luminous, mysterious part of this unknowable world.

What changed is that my fate and my body gave me no choice but to work with my nervous system and my brain, and to learn all the ways they held the somatic signature of all my traumas, all my heartaches. And to learn that that signature was written with the ink of fear and in the shape of shame.

Fear of unworthiness. Fear of unlovability. And burning hot shame about both.

What changed is that I was held and guided—by therapists, by that bigger part of me, by forests and horses, and by the Great Mystery herself—to be with that fear, to sit right in the middle of that burning hot shame, and to feel my unconditional worth and lovability, to start rewriting that signature with new ink and with a new shape.

With the ink of love and the shape of worthiness.

I can still hear and feel, with overflowing gratitude, the voices of the kind and skilled therapists and coaches who said over and over again: “Of course.”

Of course you sought safety in the company of forests, birds, horses and dogs.

Of course you donned the shiniest, hardest armor and picked up the sharpest, longest sword.

Of course you didn’t feel safe with all but the dearest humans.

And best of all, of course you can heal.

Of course everything, everything can change.

It really can. And it did.

Or at least it started to.

Not because I “did it” or because I’m “done.”

Not because I have arrived anywhere or made it over some healing “finish line.”

But because I was invited to start, and I said yes. Because I’m in it and still saying yes over and over to the hard, beautiful work of uncovering my undefended heart and my undefended Self. The hard, beautiful work of seeing all that is messy and broken in me, and lovingly holding it with the unbroken, luminous part of me.

And trusting that that is enough. Trusting that I am enough. Exactly as I am.

That’s what changed.

I started, I’m in it, and I’m staying with it. And that’s enough. Because I don’t think there’s a finish line.

It’s the starting and the saying yes that matters. It’s the showing up and the staying. It’s the big seeings and the breath-taking healing moments, but it’s also the little shifts, the tiny unfurlings, the newfound moments of something new and precious.

That starting and staying has meant that instead of seeing a threat in every face, feeling a threat from every body, I’m shocked to see and feel love. I see love and kindness everywhere and in everyone.

It surprises and delights me. Who knew the world was so full of love?

It’s like I got a whole new set of glasses or a whole new set of eyeballs.

Or maybe simply an undefended heart and an undefended body. At least sometimes.

Of course, I also see hurts and armor. Hurts as deep as mine were and armor as shiny and hard as mine has been, and sometimes still is.

But that’s ok. Those hurts and that armor—and the behaviors they lead to—don’t scare me anymore. I understand them. I know them. I don’t need to run, and I don’t need to protect myself. Or if I do feel the need, I understand it, and I’m kind to myself until I can find my way back to safety, back to connection. Or not. Which is ok too.

All of that means that I’m able to feel safe in the human world in a way I thought was only possible among the trees or with my hand buried in the silky mane of a horse.

It means I get to be a people person for the first time in my 54 years.

Honestly, I’m as surprised as anyone.

We thought they were loners

standing straight and tall

needing no one

and neither giving nor receiving.

We thought they were

lone warriors standing bravely

In a difficult world.

How wrong we were.

Now we know

that they reach their roots

into the welcoming earth

like hands reaching for life,

reaching for love,

touching, caressing, intertwining

with the hands of their kin

and with the skin and bones

of the others they depend on.

They are

givers,

receivers,

carers,

connectors.

They are lovers.

They stand together in kinship,

in togetherness,

in mutual care.

As do we.

If and when we let ourselves

welcome the fear

take off the armor

reach our hands into our own fertile soil

and with undefended hearts

touch the hands of our kin

touch the skin and bones

of the others we depend on.

That’s when we too

stand in kinship,

in togetherness,

in mutual care.

For we too are lovers.

If you’re new here, welcome!

However you made your way here, I’m grateful you found me and happy to have you pop into my little world, whether it’s for a brief visit or a longer hangout around my campfire.

Accidental Alchemy is a serial memoir, so if you’re curious and have the time, I recommend starting with the Prologue and reading chapters in order for the full experience. You can access all chapters on my Substack homepage.

For the best reading experience, I recommend reading in a browser and on a larger screen. It makes it easier to enjoy the art and navigate through the chapters with the buttons at the bottom of each post.

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PS.. All art and poetry included in this memoir are my own unless I specifically credit another author or artist.