the importance of being earnest

why I write and create or do anything I do

Sometimes a small fear creeps into the back of my head, that I am too old to be doing any of the things I do. That it’s stupid, pointless, and people are embarrassed to be around me or know me in some capacity. That I am scaring people away. It’s such fleeting thought, like the visibility of your breathe in the cold, it’s there and gone.

But we can acknowledge that it’s there. I have witnessed it with my own eyes. We know condensation exists even though it disappears.

So, while I hold this existential thought and fear for a while I come to the shocking realization that my fear is based in a fear of rejection [everyone ohh and ahh I am being sarcastic because no shit.]

And I don’t know who I am without rejection.

I…am an age. I am an age where there is a very clear and upfront list of expectations society has had for me, things I should have accomplished by this age. I have many of them, and given our current climate around..well everything, I would say I have an abundance of these pre-selected expectations crossed off! I have the 1 bedroom in a large metropolitan city, with a cat, I have the director title in my field of study, I beat teen pregnancy, I do have a chronic illness but I am largely abled in all aspects of my life. I have the friends, the hobbies, the occasional cocktail, the ludicrous but delicious love of weed tinctures, the love of long walks, and summers in the park reading…

Granted some of the things I have [beating teen pregnancy] and some of the things I don’t have or want [2.5 kids] are a result of lesbianism, but that’s neither here nor there.

While I go down the list of things I have or do not, do or do not, I often contemplate what I do or should not. Should I not use social media as a creative outlet? Should I not post that funny meme on my stories because I am too old? [too old for what LAUGHTER?] Should I be talking about a crush or dating at my age? Should I be here, writing at my age about this journey of everyday self discovery, of framing life as both joyous and a burden.

In all of that questioning I did not happen upon an answer beyond the fact that I do not know who I am without contemplating and pre-rejecting myself on the behalf of others.

Why would anyone want to hear of my still fumbling through life, humanity, and existence?

Asking that question offered me the another non-answer to my question. Why not?

Recently, I interacted with a complete stranger and they complimented me on how “together” I seem. To me this laughable, but I have come to recognize that the surface level interpretation of me is a safety tactic that honestly I appreciate and love—much like a soft shell crab.

I am not 100% sure what “together” is supposed to look like, or why I am supposed to be that. I imagine it is alarming to come upon someone, say in complete hysterics, but I wouldn’t use that moment as a complete indication of their “togetherness” without some context. But togetherness is so relative that in the moment I can take it as nothing but a compliment [based on tone and timing] and save the existential questioning for the confines of my room.

And if it comes off as this piece is me monologuing to you in circles, that’s because it is. Because I am the age I am, and I am still wondering who I am or who I am supposed to be or why I am supposed to be somethings and not others…and it feels as though one of the things I definitely should be is put together.

And I don’t know how to be any thing at all without thinking I will be fundamentally disliked and unloved because of whatever it is I am.

And I think that is why I am here—substack here. That is why I am writing because so much of my life has been riddled with rejection. Rejection of my experiences through gaslighting, neglect, and abuse—rejection through unmet needs—romantic rejection—every form of rejection in [I would say] an over abundance, so much that I will reject myself for you.

Because the one thing I have been—a constant in my life has centered around rejection. And while I write this I even preemptively insert your eye roll and deep sigh. The beauty of it now is it does not stop me in my tracks. Each weekly piece is a moment where I don’t reject me.

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Another recent interaction with a friend involved me discussing my crush. Should I be embarrassed to have a crush? Should I be embarrassed calling it a crush? And most of all should I be embarrassed talking about it—is it embarrassing that people know I have one, at my age? They referred to me as earnest. Initially, that made me feel so bad. What a loser. Who wants to be described as earnest? Isn’t that immature and childlike?

Why is sincerity (a synonym for earnest) embarrassing? What other word should I use for someone I am attracted to, don’t know very well, but am interested in continuing to learn about? What other word should I use? Why should I hide my interest when asked? I have lived that life, and so often the secrecy quickly morphs into shame.

I think sincerity scares people because ambiguity allows other people to insert whatever they want. And I think a lot of the rejection I have experienced is based in someone else’s fear of my sincerity.

I am earnest. And it’s such an interesting existence to say to you I deeply fear rejection and do not know how to exist without expecting it, and I also do not know how to be anything other than myself, earnestly. My personality, my passions have withstood the test of time, the test of trauma, the test of existence—they have remained, I have remained. Evolution has been natural, and the more I write, the more I create, the more I tap into the most earnest pieces of myself that may have been hidden for safety. The more I write, the more in love with myself I fall. It tumbles into a life filled with more love and less rejection. That reality excites me as much as it frightens me.

My recent piece about being exactly who you say I am felt so freeing—being so earnest [ha!] in that way scared me. Learning to lean into that fear has also just made me the more sincere, more chalant, passionate, ardent, heartfelt. My heart has wanted to be seen for as long as I can remember. Seen and embraced, seen and appreciated, seen and loved.

And so I write, in earnest, to engage you in this space. I allow the space and reality that you may read these pieces and think I am too much. I allow the space that my sincerity and passion may even drive those I desire, away. I allow the space that so many of us have had our sincerity met with so much avoidance—our passion has repulsed the most fearful people, that seeing it in others, seeing it here with me, may push you to flee.

I simply have never known any other way to be—and through so much I remain and have made the choice to stay this way with so much grace, and compassion, and hope that it will continue to bring sincere love into my life—without the pretense of rejection.

Thank you for joining me in this practice of not “pre-rejecting.” Rejection will always hurt, but it’s beginning to feel less and less like it will lead to my complete decimation. It’s taken a long time to get here, and I struggle a lot with time—but I am learning to lean in. Remaining earnest comes with a hefty fee, and I will gladly keep paying the price.

I am so proud of us because we keep on moving…

I feel moved to share this incredible piece I read two weeks ago and I have gone to revisit it many times because it felt as though I wrote it. It’s so deeply intimate and incredible. Read it here

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