About honesty and pain and watching angels sleep
A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a friend about how sometimes people choose not to tell truths to their loved ones because they are afraid of hurting them. For some reason, some words came through me and I expelled them without filter. The weight of them did not hit me until later. At that moment I told her: “We all have a different level of tolerance for the truth.”
That sank in me….deep.
“We all have a different level of tolerance for the truth.”
Yesterday, I stayed a few seconds observing my three-year-old son while he was still asleep. That peaceful face, his cute lips, the way he puts his hands as if he was praying, the glow of innocence. My heart swelled while I rejoiced at the moment, thinking how much I loved him and how I wanted to protect him from pain for the rest of his life. I did the same thing with my daughters, too, when they were younger, but now they have grown, and if they find me looking at them while they are sleeping, they would probably scream, “Moooom, creepy!” So I don’t do it anymore. However, that desire to protect them has not evaporated. They have had their share of pain, and for the most part, I have been completely unable to shield their hearts.
I don’t take it personally; it has not been a fault on my part (again, most of the time. Occasionally, it has been questionable) As humans, it seems impossible to avoid pain completely. In fact, it is thanks to pain that we grow. I don’t speak butterfly language, which would make it impossible for me to prove this, but I am sure a caterpillar would not find the process of breaking out of the cocoon a painless affair. Extending the wings, parting the chrysalis, trying to fly. And then, it is an inevitable process.
If life were a seesaw, honesty would be on my side, pain on the other. Sometimes finding the balance is quite difficult. But in life, as in the playground, we need two similarly weighted sides to find balance. When honesty is heavy and big, our pain goes high. When pain is massive and large, our honesty shrinks to honesty with others or ourselves. We avoid the truths because we don’t want to feed the pain. Then how do we achieve that balance?
I am a firm believer in living with sincerity, facing our truths as painful as they could be. But as I started writing this, I realized that the phrase I told my friend weeks ago was incomplete. It should have said, “We all have a different level of tolerance for the truth and for pain.” We should choose the level in which we take and in which we give both. There are no right or wrong ways, just several roads to the same destinations. Some paths are shorter and straighter, some longer and windier. We got to choose, but whatever it is, we need to own it. Even when sometimes it seems life sends us blows that break us into pieces, we still get to choose how we manage the truths we unveil.
My kids will not remain innocent all of their lives. So many times, we will cry with them and for them. Sometimes we must tell them what they don’t want to hear. So many times, we will have to hear what we are not ready to face. I won’t be able to shield them all their lives the same way that I can’t prevent so many tough lessons I would have to go through. Our level of tolerance will vary and expand. I can only hope that truth comes to my side when I am asleep and see the parts of me that remain innocent and want to protect me. I know the pain would be looking closely, too, and hopefully, the two can come together and ride the seesaw like giggly kids in a constant game of ups and downs. When one of them falls, the other will pick it up. I cannot control their game, but I can stay committed to finding my own balance, knowing that I will probably fail at it many times, but every time I will break the cocoon and come out stronger.