I Hear You

I haven't told anyone. The words, I know, will feel like self-betrayal. They will feel like throwing away every earnest effort and every prayer... like a mockery of my own bygone passion.

I don't even know her yet... A friend of a friend, someone I've barely met, and yet I feel inclined to trust her. Would it be a mistake? I test the waters. "It's been rough. My parents won't understand. I've already disappointed them and I haven't even really told them everything, only hinted."

She nods, her arms around herself, hugging her knees to her chin. "That sounds rough."

"It is. I'm scared to be open with them. It's torture to hold it in, but I'm so scared to talk about it... even to think about it." If I say the words, will I still be myself? Will the confession swallow up my identity? Will it destroy my sense of purpose? Every step I've taken in my life has centered around the thought that this will never be me. Now, to my distress, it IS me. It's me, and it hurts like hell, and I will have to admit it to somebody.

"I just... haven't really admitted it to myself yet." Weighed down. That's how my heart feels. Braced for pain, pensive, desperate for deliverance. Craving relief, and afraid of relief. Relief would mean telling the truth.

"I get that. It's hard to be true to yourself, even if it's something so important you. ESPECIALLY if it's important to you." Her eyes are full of attention. I feel heard, and that almost scares me more. I know my guard is lowering, the promise of safety in her ever calm responses bringing me dangerously close to saying it.

The truth. My heart cowers at the prospect of impending exposure. Crushed, vulnerable, sad. A disappointment. The tears are pushing now, pushing for release.

"I guess... I've just finally realized--" A hiccup interrupts me but it is too late. I rush to finish my confession, panicked at how final my words sound. "I don't believe in God anymore." It's out. I look at her with blurred vision, a sharp pang in my throat as the dam breaks. The flood fills my eyes and spills over as I realize I've said it aloud for the first time. There I am... raw, real, and waiting.

She gives no time to hesitation. Immediately, as fast as the tears spill over she opens her arms to welcome my pain and squeeze away the hurt. Here I am finally safe. Accepted in my brokenness, seen and heard and loved for everything I am and everything I am not. I break, my heart shattered and my sobs unbridled, falling apart in the firm hold of compassion.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay. I hear you." No judgement, no answers, no questions, not even advice. Only love, and validation. How can so much love come from a stranger? She is barely acquainted with me, yet so deeply acquainted with compassion. My newness is no obstacle to the flood of acceptance in her embrace. Eventually my sobs melt away and my breathing slows. Relief washes through me to replace the apprehension I've carried around for much too long.

Months pass. Now I am brave... Now I can face the disappointed stares, the uncomfortable nods, the disapproval of family, teachers, and peers, the rude comments, the unsolicited judgement. Of course it hurts. It will always hurt. But that first confession, that pivotal time when I was even afraid to admit it to myself, a new friend held me in her arms, compassion personified.

She showed me what it means to be generous with love, and how to teach someone that they are valuable and understood. Every time I am misjudged for my beliefs and my choices, I remember the safety of that moment.

I was held together as I fell apart, listened to as I choked on my words, loved even as I hated myself. The compassion I witnessed will be remembered and emulated for the rest of my life.