What to remember when it feels painful to be yourself

I live in Austin, Texas.

About this time of year wildflowers explode like knee-high fireworks from yards, empty lots, sidewalks, and along the highways.

It's a short spectacle. They're already drying up as summer nears. But, my goodness - March and April - it's like seeing color for the first time.

I always thought wildflowers just happened here, but have learned this is not necessarily the case. The Texas Department of Transportation sows about 30,000 pounds of seeds each year along the highways to ensure their spring return. And on our quiet, shady street, neighbors discuss when to scatter and how to increase the likelihood of germination. Just because the flowers are wild, I've come to understand, doesn't mean they'll bloom anywhere.

One neighbor - a woman in her seventies with a corner lot boasting an enviable wildflower show - leaves bluebonnet seeds in a box near the curb after the flowers have crisped and the seed pods are mature. The other day while walking the dogs I stopped to ask if we'd benefit from her generosity again this season, as I'm hoping to sow in the fall for spring 2025.

"I don't know," she chuckles and shrugs.

I soon realize she's laughing at herself.

After looking lovingly at her flowers for a moment, she sighs: "For as long as I can remember, flowers have been vital to me, and I thought that meant flowers were just as important to everyone else. Why did I assume that? It all feels a little silly now."

Another big pause as she gazes past me, then continues, "I'm nearly self-conscious of my campaign to pass out seeds and my dream of seeing wildflowers consume every yard on our street."

She then makes eye contact from beneath the brim of her sun hat and winces slightly. Maybe her back hurts from gardening, or maybe she's wincing at the thought of being embarrassed by something she loves. Or maybe a little of both.

I know that wince.

And, though my back does ache more frequently as I'm knocking on 40, the wince is more often associated with the pain of being myself.

Do you know this pain?

Every once in a while you catch a burst of energy or excitement about something - cooking Italian food or organizing the garage or talking about geography - but you're pulled away from the joy by a familiar urge to pump the brakes, for fear your way of making meaning is not connected with anyone else's.

So we get small, we hide, we keep our joy to ourselves, and instead of contributing to the world we decide we'd be better off complying with what we imagine normalcy looks like.

Every week when I consider what to publish here, I nearly scare myself out of publishing anything at all.

Because what if you don't like it? Or what if you unsubscribe? What if you say something critical about me to a friend? Which would make me feel like I'm doing something wrong, or confirm my fears that all of this is a waste of time and I should focus all of my energy on selling more keynote speeches.

Last week I was chatting with some friends out on the screened porch as fireflies dotted the twilight. They asked me how I was doing and I shared that I'm feeling timid about the release of my upcoming book, and how anxious I (still) am about putting my ideas into the world.

"It's not like I'm sharing concrete tips on how to start a side-business or repair your bicycle or obtain a European passport," I lament to them, "I'm just a dude writing about meaningful moments in his life and sharing the same few lessons I keep learning again and again about how to be more intentional, selfless, and accepting."

My friends smile knowingly at one another; we've been here before. A buddy then asks me what kind of writing I love to read.

I exhale, then mutter that I like to read writing that helps me remember how meaningful life is -especially the small moments - and I enjoy writers who share what they're learning on their journey to be more intentional, selfless and accepting.

They all say they like that kind of writing as well.

When I talk to groups about the power of storytelling, one of the first points I drive home is that stories are not about entertainment. A good story isn't about engaging an audience or keeping their attention. Stories work because they facilitate connection.

Because connection is what we're all desperate for.

We're all navigating our lives looking for proof that we're not crazy, we're not broken, we're not mistaken. That we're not alone.

So, the act of sharing our ideas, teaching people what we know, broadcasting a message that matters to us, tackling projects that bring us joy, or creating because we feel better as a result - it matters.

And it must be shared. Whatever it is that matters to you, I am certain someone else has the same thing echoing around inside of them.

All of life might be about this one thing: remembering you're not alone and reminding others of the same.

Some of us do that by sharing wildflower seeds, others by sharing words - I wonder what it is for you?