Tears You Don't See
I came into this world soft hearted, tender, and sensitive. From as young as I can remember, I could feel the heart energies and sufferings of others. I cried a lot, from seeing others hurt and feeling my own hurt. But I was told early on by my family, save your tears for things that matter. I was conditioned to believe that what hurt me wasn't important. I was often called a cry baby. My family had little tolerance for my sensitivities and tears. Many years ago, I was crying during a conflict with my mom and brother, where my mom, in her own distress and pain, pulls out a knife and yells out, do you want me to give you a real reason to cry? In my marriage, my partner, due to his own conditioning, was often numb to and unresponsive to my tears. He just didn't know how to hold them with tenderness. My family didn't know how to either.
Throughout my life, I've been told in many ways that a soft and sensitive heart is weak, unappealing, and simply too much. I've grown accustomed to hiding my deepest tears, saving them for when I am alone, or with a very trusted friend. Why is this the prevailing message in our families? In our culture? In our society? Why, from a young age, are we socialized to turn away from our truest natures? We are born to feel, to cry, to express our most basic needs. But as we become adults, these powerful abilities are stripped away from us, preventing us from being attuned to our inner world and making it more difficult to connect with others deeply.
Over the past few months, through this most difficult transition, my tears have saved me. I have had many of them. Tears you don't see. Tears I cry walking in the streets at night. Tears I cry in the shower. Tears I cry in bed under my blue blanket hugging my pillow. Tears I cry in the woods. Tears I cry in my office with the blinds closed. Tears I cry as I read something that has touched me deeply. Tears I cry listening to a sad song. Tears I cry while meditating. Tears I cry on the bus looking out the window. Tears I cry as I feel my suffering.
Every single drop has allowed me to release buried pain, helping me to heal my wounds.
Crying is really painful. Literally so. Each time I do, my eyes swell up and my eye balls ache like mad, to a point where I need to put ice packs on my face. Not a cute look. But as I reflect on my conditioning and work to rewire my beliefs about what my tears mean, deconstructing a deeply embedded narrative that tears are weakness and "too much" for others to see or hold, I feel grateful to have access to my tears and to my heart. My heart is my most powerful organ, and I will continue to harvest its tenderness, softness, and openness.
Throughout my life, I've been told in many ways that a soft and sensitive heart is weak, unappealing, and simply too much. I've grown accustomed to hiding my deepest tears, saving them for when I am alone, or with a very trusted friend. Why is this the prevailing message in our families? In our culture? In our society? Why, from a young age, are we socialized to turn away from our truest natures? We are born to feel, to cry, to express our most basic needs. But as we become adults, these powerful abilities are stripped away from us, preventing us from being attuned to our inner world and making it more difficult to connect with others deeply.
Over the past few months, through this most difficult transition, my tears have saved me. I have had many of them. Tears you don't see. Tears I cry walking in the streets at night. Tears I cry in the shower. Tears I cry in bed under my blue blanket hugging my pillow. Tears I cry in the woods. Tears I cry in my office with the blinds closed. Tears I cry as I read something that has touched me deeply. Tears I cry listening to a sad song. Tears I cry while meditating. Tears I cry on the bus looking out the window. Tears I cry as I feel my suffering.
Every single drop has allowed me to release buried pain, helping me to heal my wounds.
Crying is really painful. Literally so. Each time I do, my eyes swell up and my eye balls ache like mad, to a point where I need to put ice packs on my face. Not a cute look. But as I reflect on my conditioning and work to rewire my beliefs about what my tears mean, deconstructing a deeply embedded narrative that tears are weakness and "too much" for others to see or hold, I feel grateful to have access to my tears and to my heart. My heart is my most powerful organ, and I will continue to harvest its tenderness, softness, and openness.
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