So This Is Me...Huh..

I must admit that as I’ve done my best with healing myself along this journey of life, sans professional help, I’d like to think I’ve acquired the skill of recognizing the times in my life when the births of my capacity for certain things occurred: like my capacity for long-suffering (and its limits); my capacity for forgiveness and where its horizon ends; my capacity for patience; my capacity for ecstasy; and my capacity for love (that one is ever evolving). But it wasn’t until this prompted essay that I realized when my capacity for empathy began.

I’ve always privately prided myself on the depths of my empathy; that is a space that I most intimately and most comfortably reside in. Sometimes it’s too heavy and I’ve learned ways to protect my absorptive nature to take on another’s emotions. But now I can clearly define when it started, 22 years ago.

I was a freshman in college, a Christian college and to be exact a Seventh-Day Adventist college. This meant that 90% of the students had come from said churches, congregations, and conferences; this meant having automatic friendships that you didn’t have to bravely embark on in this newfound independent phase of life. It was like a beautifully cocooned way to enter into and continue through college. That wasn’t me. I came from a public school and had been going to church on Sunday for quite a few years at that point, so I didn’t have that luxury of pre-established wingmen/women to brave the social scene. I was alone, not just because of my different upbringing but also because I WAS alone. Not having a great relationship with my mother at the time meant that when it was time for the symbolic grandeur that culminated the introductory days of college - when we new students would symbolically and LITERALLY walk through a corridor on the lawn of the library thus symbolizing that we were leaving our parents to be “adults”, but ironically still had to find them right after in order to be with your family as you listen to whatever words of wisdom were being spoken - I had to ask someone if I could stand with them and their family since I was by myself. To this day that memory puts a lump in my throat.

This aloneness continued in my dorm room. While I was absolutely blessed to be in the newer wing which meant sharing a bathroom with a suite mate instead of using the communal bathroom (which was critical as I was grossly underprepared for college and had just the bare necessities – like only sheets and no comforter for my bed [I was clueless as to what college entailed & needed] let alone bath shoes and a caddy), I had no roommate – it just worked out that way for that semester.

As school started and everyone was pairing up with familiar faces, I was too shy to boldly go out and say “Hello, I’m looking to make friends. My name is Eleanor.” (Yeah, it sounded that corny in my head too so I opted not to). I desperately wanted to be a part of these cliques, a clique, a couple of people; and while I had met some people whom to this day are dear to me, they weren’t my “village” or whatever that looks like in your 1st semester of college. I would retreat back to my room after classes, not wanting to look desperate by being by myself, and not wanting to stick out; so there I went, back to my room. Let me take a moment to be clear; I had made some friends, but they were mostly guys. I wanted girlfriends, girls I could hang out with, and that was the most important part – the part that wasn’t there outside of saying pleasantries in a classroom. The loneliness was palpable. Was I confident in who I was as a person and that I would be a great friend? Absolutely! Was I brave enough to introduce her to others and actively seek friendships? No. And this is where I believe my empathy was birthed. Feeling it so crisply, so clearly, so bluntly, I knew no one should feel this [and this is a core belief to this day].

Now that the seed of empathy had been placed in the soil, it simply needed the right conditions to sprout and grow. Those conditions came one night in the dormitory.

A couple of girls were going around trying to collect anything they could to help out their friend who had become pregnant [or had just had a baby – it’s been quite a while so that detail is fuzzy but what is clear is that she was with child and that was completely intolerable by my Christian school’s standards] and was being kicked out. Her friends reached my room, knocked on the door, and told me their request. It didn’t take much; I didn’t really need much of the details. All that stuck out to me, like “a blue line in a red sky” (to quote my favorite movie Love Jones), was that here was someone who was being shoved into a position where loneliness could abound, where feeling a lack of support could creep in. And I couldn’t let someone, especially someone in such a vulnerable position, feel what I was feeling. I didn’t even think twice about it; my mom had just sent me some money and I gave most, if not all of it. $200. I knew most of us students wouldn’t have that to give and that that could really help with the total amount that they’d collect; after all, I wasn’t the one with a life in addition to my own to now have to care for. I asked them to not tell her it was me and they were so appreciative. I figured I could ask my mom for more if I really needed it (our relationship was nonexistent at that time outside of her making sure I didn’t go hungry). I don’t know whatever happened to her past getting kicked out. But what I realize is that in that moment, my sprout of what is now my empathic being sprung forth and connected with her and moved me to do my best to soothe, to support, to love on her. And that’s what I do. Nowadays it’s evolved into, among other acts, intentionally giving strangers compliments, especially men (I think it’s easier and maybe more common for a woman to get complimented on how she shows up more than a man who’s in a nice suit one day – it’s like well yeah, he’s a man, he’s supposed to show up like this; but that’s still effort and that too deserves to be acknowledged). Whether it’s a put-together outfit, a pair of earrings, a color scheme that goes well with someone’s complexion, a hairstyle that’s bold, or someone who is so clearly being authentically themselves and doing so proudly, I love to acknowledge them, to let them know that they’re seen and their efforts are seen, and it’s all beautiful.

I know what it’s like to feel alone, to feel invisible when everyone else seems to be paired so easily; and I know how critical even a simple acknowledgement can be for someone, on a mundane day, for no exceptional reason other than that they exist. And that’s all it takes really, that you simply exist – and that is enough cause to be celebrated; to be seen; to be appreciated; to be loved. I’m drawn to making people feel seen, to putting a smile on their face, knowing that that possibly made their heart a little lighter in that moment. Will it be life-changing? Probably not? Maybe? Who will ever know? But what I do know is that I get to add to the side of the scales where love resides. And I’m ok with that.