Purpose, Part II: Authorship
Inspired by a conversation with a friend, I asked my subscribers their thoughts on the “purpose” of my newsletter. This mini-series is a reflection about some of the responses you all wrote in!
“I don’t know how to capture why,” one subscriber wrote, “but it still feels like you hold back.”
I bit my cheek reading this comment. This simple sentence touches on one of my favorite topics: my lifetime sparring partner, Vulnerability.
You’re right. I do hold back. You didn’t ask me why, but it feels important to explain myself.
First and foremost, my choice to hold back is not a choice made of fear, or shame, or the desire to paint a more curated picture of myself. In fact, whenever I catch myself engaging in those negative thought patterns, I usually make an effort to bring those topics to light.
I hold back because it’s the most authentic expression of my healed self.
When I was in elementary school, my parents began the process of a truly heinous divorce. While the divorce itself was relatively straightforward, the custody battles that ensued were anything but. Those negotiations (if such a tactful word even applies here) lasted until the youngest of us turned 18 — around 14 years, from start to finish. It was all-consuming. And despite its big reputation, my hometown of New Orleans is a small town. Social circles are tightly knit. Everyone knows everyone’s business. (It didn’t help that police officers had to come pick me up from school because of the restraining orders, or violated custody agreements, or court injunctions, or whatever bullshit my parents were throwing at each other.)
Needless to say, the fracturing of my family wasn’t a private affair. Privacy wasn’t a privilege I had.
And so, I dealt with it the best way I could think of: I took a page from my father’s book, and I wrested control of the narrative. I owned the chaos and wore it like a suit of armor. I talked openly about everything and anything, to anyone. Secrets couldn’t hurt me if I shouted them loud enough. Insults couldn’t touch me if I’d already inoculated myself to them. My whole life had been torn open for everyone to see. They wanted details? Fine. I’d give them the preshow Q&A.
In short, I weaponized exposure. It wasn’t exactly a healthy response, but it’s one I understand. I was trying to exert what little power I had in the situation. I was trying to take back what had been stolen from me.
Unfortunately, that response came with its own downsides. I didn’t just ignore my boundaries; I blew them up. I tore up their foundations. I resented the very idea of having them, and I learned to surround myself with people who thrived on that raw, unprotected energy.
I’m not saying openness itself is unhealthy — but I exercised it with reckless, violent abandon. I did so without thinking of the consequences. My openness wasn’t an act of self-care; it was an act of desperate self-preservation.
In the years to follow, my relationship with boundaries took many forms. Sometimes, they were nowhere to be seen. Other times, they were constructed overnight and without warning. It took me years to learn how to recognize when I truly needed a boundary; then several more to learn how to establish one. The work thereafter — learning how to maintain boundaries consistently, without shame or fear — has been the hardest of all.
Now, for me, vulnerability is an act of authorship. Holding back, opening up, establishing and renegotiating boundaries…it’s a process that ebbs and flows, much like the pacing of a well-written story. With every new chapter, things look a little different.
And so, friend, you’re just reading another chapter. Hopefully you’re interested in reading the next one. Because, come rain or shine, I’ll still be writing :)
