We Are All Afraid

We are all afraid. Despite that, and because of that, we tell our stories. We tell them to figure out who the hell we are, and when that fails, we read other people’s stories in the hopes that they can tell us who the hell we are. Along the way, someone might reach out and say, “I feel that way, too,” and knowing that you’re not alone can mean the difference between giving up and going on.

Why do so many of us, then, fail to reach out? Will it kill you to let someone else know that you, too, are afraid, unsure, angry, sad or maybe even joyful, excited, enthusiastic, passionate? So the mask slips a little and your true self gets revealed—maybe for only a split second. Is that really so bad? What would you say if you knew that the response would be, “I love you and I am thankful that you trust me enough to share that with me”? If you were told that you’d never see this person again, would you make the joke, the snide comment, tell him he’s doing it wrong? Would you pour another drink, light up one more smoke, and keep your mouth shut?

I hope not.