“I didn’t care to know that much about you.”
“I didn’t care to know that much about you.”
The comment about my book hit me like a punch to the stomach. It hit right to the core of my fear.
My fear about writing my story and sharing it was not so much about what people would say about the sorted details, the judgmental assumptions, or just statements that could be thrown at me. I have run for and served in public office; those things have been commonplace in my life. What scared me most was that my story wouldn’t matter, that it would seem an overshare, presumptuous, trite, or irrelevant.
The comment was every fear wrapped into one statement: The details of my story didn’t matter. Or the elements of my story didn’t matter; even worse, the only aspects of my story that did matter were what this person knew before reading it: the accomplishments that had driven me to the brink.
Of course, it came when I didn’t have time to process it and just had to sit with it for a while. Later, as I revisited it, my thought turned to, well, if this person didn’t care to know that much about me, why bother reading it in the first place, let alone finish it? And lastly, I thought to myself: “I shared my messy, clearly still in-process version of events. And the story has mattered to dozens upon dozens at this point who have already reached out, telling me “Thank you.” Sharing with me the parts that resonated and how it helped them already in the short time it has been out. Those are the comments that should matter.
We all know; however, you can get a million compliments, but the negative comment that’s that one you can’t stop thinking about. Then I do the inevitable; I keep thinking and overthinking and asking why this person would say it at all? Why say the words that delivered a gut punch? I don’t have an answer, but what I know is where I am firmly planted these days.
I get to choose what I let in and what I don’t. I get to pick what words I will let absorb into my being and which ones will forever stay outside my force field. This comment is certainly not getting anywhere close. And I will live my life like my story does matter, and so should you—a messy work in progress, more than the exterior front that I poorly presented for years. As I thought more about the comment, it strikes something more profound in our society; we are not allowed to not have it all together. And I am calling bull shit.
Just the other day, I was reminded of what beautiful imperfections are all about and how despite the critics forging on was what matters. On a day about as near perfect as it gets, I got the distinct honor to stumble upon a physical reminder that the messy details of who we are and the deep-seated sorted information of each of our story’s matter.
Riding bikes through the small village of Chemuyil, Tulum, Quinta Roo, Mexico, we stumbled upon this enormous structure, clearly still under construction yet occupied. As we approached, it became apparent it was a church. Half-built church, temple, synagogue, pyramid, cave, whenever I find a spiritual worship space, the need to stop and absorb is overwhelming. This one is no different.
Our guide explained that the community was building it, “no government help,” he made sure to say. What was amazing to me is that the community was not just building it; they were living it and worshiping it. They weren’t waiting until they had all the funds in to construct the perfect complete beautiful structure; they were making it as they could and enjoying it every step of the way—rebar exposure, open roof, no door and all.
It made me reflect on my own story. Our culture and society in the United States tell us that until we are perfect, nothing is worth sharing, or heck only perfection, and your accomplishments matter. Hell, our ridiculous building codes that I bemoan often say this, a piecemealed lived church would never be a thing in our button-up perfect, don’t expose the gory details of our lives society.
While the negative, downright mean comments about my story certainly are only just beginning, what I am going to choose to do is live my life with the idea that I am not quite complete, certainly not perfect, a work in progress, and my story matters, and so does everyone else’s. The part of the story that matters, though, is not the polished exterior with your list of accomplishments or your polished sanctuary. What matters is the rebar, the open-air roof, and the fact that finishing touches aren’t what matters.
So those seeking just the polished exterior will not find that here. With me, you get all the details, living in authentic and honest leadership, no longer just a list of my accomplishments, but a list of my shortcomings as well.
