There are people who politely ask me, “How was your trip?” and are perfectly content to hear the wooden answer I scripted two weeks before I got home. They ask “What was your favorite country?” and don’t push for anything more when I simply say, “South Africa.”
And then there are people who bravely ask things like, “Do you miss your friends?” or “Is it hard to be back?” and aren’t afraid to hear me say, “Every other hour of every single day, and I honestly don’t know how to do life without them,” or “I’m anxious almost always, I don’t like to eat anymore, and my perfectionism is getting more deadly by the day.”
Or they’ll just say, “I don’t know where you’d even start to process all you’ve been through,” and sit in the next minute of silence with me as we both chew on that profound truth.
The second group are the ones who aren’t afraid of my fragile self.
They don’t find it awkward when they ask me a question I don’t know how to answer, or one that makes me sad.
They understand that I’m not perfect because they understand that I’m still me.
And I desperately need people like that.
Because I’m terrified of how easily I fall apart.
Because I can’t stand when I don’t have perfectly packaged answers for all the things people wonder about my year.
Because I just can’t grasp the reality that I didn’t become an expert at life while I was gone.
The more people who will give me grace for all of that, the easier it will be for me to give it to myself.
I forgot how to do that.
