the softening of a generation

Pop Quiz, Lovebug:

At what point in your childhood were you told that you’re too much and started to recognize that everything would get easier the quieter you became?

At what point did it click for you that being a joy to have in class made your life easier?

And now, in adulthood, at what point did you start craving the personality you had to put on a shelf? Did you start wondering where did she go? about that sweet child that was so full of life? And did you open your eyes and realize that what the world convinced you was “too much” was actually what made you magic?

I think a lot about how I had to learn how to be angry when I was in my 30’s.

It wasn’t until I quit drinking in 2017 that I realized what anger felt like in my body. (Siiiigh to the numbing, right?)

It wasn’t until I quit drinking that I realized I had anxiety.

It wasn’t until I quit drinking that it became clear that I was using alcohol to fit in, adjust my brain to whatever room it needed to be, shapeshift my too much into socially acceptable.

What I know now is that, whether or not it was alcohol-fueled, this journey isn’t unique to me. There’s a whole generation of us who were never taught to feel our feelings.

• Who were reminded that children should be seen and not heard.

• Who became pros at caretaking everyone around us but not knowing anything about how to take care of ourselves.

• And who might have needed to have self care sold back to us as adults.

Cool, cool, cool.

Our edges got softened. We called it helpful.

Except. I want to see your edges. Because that’s where your power lives. (Yep. I said power. You have it. And the world needs it.)

When you’re convinced that you are too much, the answer becomes to tone it down. Be more mature. Perform the script no one handed you but everyone seems to be working off.

We were rewarded for self-abandonment that everyone called maturity. The rebrand meant you couldn’t argue its merits.

Because of course it’s good to be mature.
Because of course it’s good to be appreciated by grown-ups.
Because of course it’s good to not be a bother.

Except we were never shown a different way. The way that gave us permission to and supported us as we practiced being ourselves.

Liiiiiike: really, truly ourselves. With all the bigness that entailed.

The bigness that not everyone understood.
The bigness that took up space.
That said look at me when the answer we were sold was sit here as quietly as possible.

It wasn’t until COVID that we really started talking about burnout. Although, I bet it already felt familiar.

I remember chronic insomnia in my mid-20’s, waking up at 3am to scribble tomorrow’s day-job to-do list.

I remember having chest pains in my cubicle, wondering if I should go to the hospital but lying down in my car instead.

I remember believing the lie that I couldn’t relax until literally everything was finished, only stopping when I’d get hit with a 102 fever and the inability to get out of bed for days.

And I bet even if your symptoms look different, you know the specific ache of living in a body that had to break before you’d allow it to rest.

And here’s what I wish I didn’t have to say: sometimes I still think it’s my job to get back in the swing of things.

Sometimes I still overwork and overset my expectations. Sometimes I still push myself too hard and bite off more than I can chew. Sometimes I have to re-learn what I want and how I’m willing to go after it.

But/and: That makes perfect sense. I’ve had decades of conditioning around a right way to be. Which means there’s a visceral part of me who thinks anything different is, well, the wrong way.

It is a daily practice of living your life out loud. With out-loud enthusiasm for the things that light you up. With an out-loud commitment to your too-much-ness and your personal power and your creativity and the vision you have for the world.

And the first step to this is recognizing that who you are is not a problem to be solved, so write this on your forearm in sharpie: My life’s purpose is not to disappear.

It’s okay to stop. Even if you don’t know what’s next or how to find it. It’s okay to commit to the practice of being yourself and rediscovering what lights you up and even if it takes literally the rest of your life, walking the path of aliveness will always be worth it.