Owning Your Truth
This is a topic that is really important to me, but it is also one that is hard to talk about sometimes. Because to talk about my truth is to be vulnerable. It means putting my heart out on display and trusting other people with my story. And that is scary. Because we can't control how people are going to respond to our story or how they are going to receive our truth. Once we put it out there, we are giving other people the power to hurt us, but we are trusting that they won't.
I believe the reason it's so important to share our stories and own our truths is because all of us have a deep longing for connection. Even when the thought of it scares the living daylights out of us, we long to be seen and known. We long for meaningful relationships where we can truly be ourselves. We long to have people in our lives who know all of our imperfections and struggles but choose to love us anyway.
We long for all of these things, but it is still hard for us to actually step out in faith to find them.
For as long as I can remember, I have been a type-A person. Everyone in my family agrees that even though I am the youngest child, I have the classic first-born personality. I'm a perfectionist, a rule-follower, and like to have things organized and under control. I have always been a worrier and I tend to wear my heart on my sleeves. I remember being told I needed to develop a thicker skin and just not worry about things so much.
In college, that anxiety turned itself into an eating disorder. Anytime I was lonely or scared or overwhelmed, I would fill my time and that void with exercising. It started out as a healthy coping mechanism and became a compulsion and something I couldn't stop. I began competing with myself to see how much I could exercise and how little I could eat. And my pride kept me from reaching out for help for several months. Because as a perfectionist, I didn't want to tell my parents that this is something I was struggling with until I could also show them that I had a plan in place and was working towards changing it.
I still remember the fear that felt like it might crush me as I sat in the car with my dad and choked my way through telling him about what I had been struggling with. I cried and assured him that I was going to see the campus nutritionist that week and the doctor to ask for help. Part of me felt relieved, but a big part of me also felt ashamed and so so small. I thought my mom and dad would be disappointed in me, and I was mad at myself for not being able to get my shit together sooner. I was mad that I couldn't "fix" this on my own. But most of all, even though I was anxious and scared, I was desperate for a change. Desperate to heal my relationship with my body, food, and exercise.
This is a part of my story that is hard to share, even now. I still feel the need to defend myself and put qualifiers around it. When I say "I struggled with an eating disorder in college," sometimes I feel the need to add, "But not any clinically diagnosed one. And never to the point where I needed hospitalization or inpatient treatment." I hate that I feel this need to defend myself and this part of my story. But I feel the need deep down in my soul. Because I don't want people jumping to conclusions and then making assumptions - I've been there, had that experience, and it was not fun.
But, no matter how many qualifiers I put around it, whatever I decide to call it - an eating disorder, disordered eating, etc. etc. - it's still a part of my story. It is still my truth.
The other thing I've learned as I have recovered from that season of my life is how much my anxiety came into play. It wasn't until college that I realized that my worrying, my constant overanalyzing, and occasional feelings of being completely overwhelmed had a name - anxiety. I had always just assumed it was part of my personality - just a part of my life that I would just learn to live with. I didn't know that anxiety was something you could treat and help with medication and other resources. So, in college, after finally asking for help from my doctor, I started taking medication for my anxiety. And at first, just like my eating disorder, I felt ashamed to tell people about it. I felt ashamed when I had to write my anxiety medication on forms for work or school.
But that shame I felt was absolute crap - it wasn't grounded in truth at all. It came from growing up in a culture that doesn't know how to talk about mental health well. It came from being in a society that all too often keeps mental health struggles silent and hidden.
There are still days when I get down, and those voices start telling me to think less of myself because of my anxiety. The shame gremlins tunnel into my mind and try to have a field day. Some days are harder than others, but now when I have hard days, I know I can reach out to people who care about me. I know that I'm not just crazy or imagining this stress - I have an anxiety disorder. And you know what, that's nothing to be ashamed of!
I see too many men and women walking this same difficult journey. Society is getting better, but we still don't do a good job of addressing mental health. And unfortunately, the church is no exception.
Life is too beautiful and precious for us to suffer in silence or let shame overwhelm us. Maybe mental illness is a part of your story, or addiction, or depression, or an eating disorder - whatever your story is, never be ashamed of it. It will probably take time, but learn to own your story and love yourself through the process. Because you are worth it - we are all worth it - and God loves us too much for us to live in shame.
Let's step into the light - our stories deserve to be shared, heard, and appreciated. We are enough.
I believe the reason it's so important to share our stories and own our truths is because all of us have a deep longing for connection. Even when the thought of it scares the living daylights out of us, we long to be seen and known. We long for meaningful relationships where we can truly be ourselves. We long to have people in our lives who know all of our imperfections and struggles but choose to love us anyway.
We long for all of these things, but it is still hard for us to actually step out in faith to find them.
For as long as I can remember, I have been a type-A person. Everyone in my family agrees that even though I am the youngest child, I have the classic first-born personality. I'm a perfectionist, a rule-follower, and like to have things organized and under control. I have always been a worrier and I tend to wear my heart on my sleeves. I remember being told I needed to develop a thicker skin and just not worry about things so much.
In college, that anxiety turned itself into an eating disorder. Anytime I was lonely or scared or overwhelmed, I would fill my time and that void with exercising. It started out as a healthy coping mechanism and became a compulsion and something I couldn't stop. I began competing with myself to see how much I could exercise and how little I could eat. And my pride kept me from reaching out for help for several months. Because as a perfectionist, I didn't want to tell my parents that this is something I was struggling with until I could also show them that I had a plan in place and was working towards changing it.
I still remember the fear that felt like it might crush me as I sat in the car with my dad and choked my way through telling him about what I had been struggling with. I cried and assured him that I was going to see the campus nutritionist that week and the doctor to ask for help. Part of me felt relieved, but a big part of me also felt ashamed and so so small. I thought my mom and dad would be disappointed in me, and I was mad at myself for not being able to get my shit together sooner. I was mad that I couldn't "fix" this on my own. But most of all, even though I was anxious and scared, I was desperate for a change. Desperate to heal my relationship with my body, food, and exercise.
This is a part of my story that is hard to share, even now. I still feel the need to defend myself and put qualifiers around it. When I say "I struggled with an eating disorder in college," sometimes I feel the need to add, "But not any clinically diagnosed one. And never to the point where I needed hospitalization or inpatient treatment." I hate that I feel this need to defend myself and this part of my story. But I feel the need deep down in my soul. Because I don't want people jumping to conclusions and then making assumptions - I've been there, had that experience, and it was not fun.
But, no matter how many qualifiers I put around it, whatever I decide to call it - an eating disorder, disordered eating, etc. etc. - it's still a part of my story. It is still my truth.
The other thing I've learned as I have recovered from that season of my life is how much my anxiety came into play. It wasn't until college that I realized that my worrying, my constant overanalyzing, and occasional feelings of being completely overwhelmed had a name - anxiety. I had always just assumed it was part of my personality - just a part of my life that I would just learn to live with. I didn't know that anxiety was something you could treat and help with medication and other resources. So, in college, after finally asking for help from my doctor, I started taking medication for my anxiety. And at first, just like my eating disorder, I felt ashamed to tell people about it. I felt ashamed when I had to write my anxiety medication on forms for work or school.
But that shame I felt was absolute crap - it wasn't grounded in truth at all. It came from growing up in a culture that doesn't know how to talk about mental health well. It came from being in a society that all too often keeps mental health struggles silent and hidden.
There are still days when I get down, and those voices start telling me to think less of myself because of my anxiety. The shame gremlins tunnel into my mind and try to have a field day. Some days are harder than others, but now when I have hard days, I know I can reach out to people who care about me. I know that I'm not just crazy or imagining this stress - I have an anxiety disorder. And you know what, that's nothing to be ashamed of!
I see too many men and women walking this same difficult journey. Society is getting better, but we still don't do a good job of addressing mental health. And unfortunately, the church is no exception.
Life is too beautiful and precious for us to suffer in silence or let shame overwhelm us. Maybe mental illness is a part of your story, or addiction, or depression, or an eating disorder - whatever your story is, never be ashamed of it. It will probably take time, but learn to own your story and love yourself through the process. Because you are worth it - we are all worth it - and God loves us too much for us to live in shame.
Let's step into the light - our stories deserve to be shared, heard, and appreciated. We are enough.
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