“Cheer up, Sarah.”
I don’t speak up for myself as often as I should. Complaints practically have to rip themselves out of me; I will bear it and bear it and wear myself out, one scrap at a time, before I find the courage to admit out loud that something is wrong.
That’s a weakness, by the way, not a strength. In theory, I value direct communication over silence and resentment. But I struggle to vocalize my needs sometimes, especially when the person I know I need to talk to hasn’t had a history of hearing me well. Sooner or later, it’s easier to shut down and give up, to stop fighting so hard against the relentless current and just take it if you so obviously must.
And yet, deeper down, I can’t ever quite forget that I was born a freedom fighter, and it burns me bitterly to silence the truth. When everyone around me keeps their mouths shut against all the frustrations that they’ve shared with me in private, eventually I hit a point of breaking past my hesitations and not caring what people think anymore. I say it, for me and for them, even if no one else will. And once again, I’m the one who ends up looking grumpy when I know I’m just the only one who’s willing to say what half of everyone is thinking.
I’d like to pretend that my courage extends to not caring how other people respond afterwards. An invalidating, “Cheer up, Sarah,” tossed my way rolls right off my back like so much dust; I know who I am and I know what’s true, and I am above the opinions of mere mortals. But in the authorized autobiography, being reminded that my pain can be so easily dismissed, my image reduced to that of a petulant child by people who have no idea and do not care to ask what obstacles I’ve been up against for the last six months sends me to hide in a locked room by myself and cry like a kid. You can know you shouldn’t care—that you won’t care once you’re a few more miles down the road—and still have to cry it out of your system sometimes.
Because at the end of the day, I prefer to contribute to a culture that can handle tough conversations, where you don’t have to be happy and you’re allowed to disagree. I suffocate in groups that demand smiles and consensus, while I relax when I can tell that saying “no” and pushing back are a regular part of the rhythm of the room. So you don’t have to like it, but I’m going to stay honest, if only to keep my own integrity intact. I refuse to ever smother my own soul just to please those who value the appearance of pleasantries over the actual, tangible wellness of every individual involved. I’ve fought too hard out of too many coffins to roll over and play dead for anyone else’s shallow system.
Speak up, friend, when it’s important and you need to. I don’t mean you should cry over spilled milk; I’m not talking about immature tantrums or an imagined victim complex. Choose your battles, but then fight them well. Speak always with kindness and respect. Articulate what you mean clearly, and avoid raising your voice if you possibly can. But speak, you truth-teller, speak, always speak, and gently disagree with anyone who tells you that you haven’t yet earned your voice. No one can muzzle you, though many might try. Let yourself be shamed and called names, and check your conscience and your God to know you’re not missing the mark or calling it wrong, but then do your best and never let your needs be bulldozed by someone who knows better.
Backyard Apricots 