Be Too Much

I went grocery shopping today. I know, I know…that is a completely normal Sunday activity that doesn’t merit a blog post, except that today I had the distinct pleasure of going with my son. Besides the chuckles I get from the things he sneaks into the cart (e.g. pineapple-flavored soda and frozen fruit bars) I have an opportunity to embarrass someone who can’t run away.

Bwaa, haa, haa.

So, it made my morning when (walking through heavy traffic in the center break of Aisle 17) I jumped ahead and played crossing guard for my 6’2″ son. “Mommmm,” he muttered under his breath, “that wasn’t necessary.” I laughed and looked over my glasses, “No, of course it wasn’t. But it was so me, wasn’t it?” He couldn’t argue, so he grimaced and agreed.

Look, I get it — I’m too much. I say things that need not be said. I do things that are embarrassing. I laugh too enthusiastically, smile too big, and talk too loud. I use hyperboles and metaphors, sometimes making provocative statements just to drive hard but important conversations. I share feelings and comments that are too personal.

For someone so small, I take up a lot of space.

I regularly and routinely recommend my blog when people are struggling with something that I’ve contemplated in one of my posts. It’s my way of sharing my stories without sharing my stories. But, it comes with a price. Over the holidays we were playing a new party game called Quiplash where everyone answers questions hoping their response will garner votes — the more votes the more points. One of the questions was, “What would be the worst thing about being stuck in a sleeping bag with Mel?” The winning answer? “She won’t STFU about her blog.”

It was the unanimous choice.

Everyone laughed — including me — because it was hilarious and so true. I’ve been writing this blog for three and a half years and if I was stuck in a sleeping bag I probably would talk about it a lot. I’m willing to bet I would talk about it too much. Fortunately for all of us, the only person I am likely to be trapped in a sleeping bag with would be my husband and he knows what he signed up for. He once lovingly said, “There is no such thing as too much Mel.”

There is something incredibly freeing about living your authentic life out loud, bringing forth your personal too much. I believe that it is the part of each person that exists outside of the safety of the bell curve that make us unique. It is an interesting irony to me that what makes us most lovable in our closest relationships is what we work so hard to hide to feel comfortable in the world.

I spent too much of my life trying to dim my light, hoping that if I was a bit less I could fit in. I think many of us do that. It wasn’t until I hit my forties, about the time I started to write this blog, that I had the trust to let my “too much” come to life. I still worry but every day adds a bit more bluster to my luster, giving me the confidence to be me.

Here’s to a year of letting your too much shine. Whether you talk too loud or don’t talk at all. Whether you laugh like a hyena or have a permanent scowl. Whether you free climb mountains or are so scared of heights you won’t live in a two-story home. Live your truth. Find your tribe. Be too much.

I’ll be right there with you.

One Letter at a Time

I write letters. Most weekends I lift my grandmother’s 1949 Royal typewriter off its stand and place it on my desk, an unlikely partner to my high-tech iMac. I select two sheets of color-coordinated oragami paper, run them through the guides, and feel the resistence as I push hard on the round keys. I compose letters full of all the emotion, candor, and typos that come with authenticity. Every one is as different as the individual who gets it, the unreadable impressions on the ribbon and platen the only record of my effort. Early on I tried to capture my words by taking a picture of each letter. I hoped I could bottle the warm feelings that I tucked into each envelope, but it didn’t last.

The words belong to the reader, not to me.

There is something uniquely vulnerable about a heartfelt letter. An email leaves a copy in your sent items folder. A text message has back-and-forth context. A conversation allows the opportunity for real-time clarification of misunderstandings, offers non-verbal cues, and has no permanence. But, a letter is physical and only the recipient can decide what happens next. They can choose to throw it away or carry it around forever. They can keep it to themselves or put it online for everyone to see. When you send it, you give up the right to choose how it will be used and cede power to the other person.

I worry sometimes that my letters are weird but I send them anyway, I push past the uncomfortable feeling that whoever I am sending it to will misinterpret my intent. I hadn’t given much thought to the feelings I was facing until a diversity and inclusion facilitator recommended a TEDx talk by Brené Brown, a research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work. In her talk, she shared her personal story about studying vulnerabilty and learning about its role in creating connections and living a whole-hearted life. Listening to her speak, it was like the pieces of my life philosophy were clicking into place. It was a master class on being TooMuch, sharing how vulnerable people…

…let themselves be seen, deeply seen.
…love with their whole hearts.
…practice gratitude and joy.
…believe that they are enough.

My letters, like these blog posts, are my way of living those ideals. And that’s why this weekend I sent three more letters off to an eclectic group of people. One to my grandmother, one of the first people to love me for the full and flawed person I am. A second to a former colleague, a young woman I worked with briefly and who is now shining her light through her own business. The third went to a woman who I looked to network with earlier in the year — my apology for not following up after her offer to share her insight.

Each one holds a little bit of me that I will not be able to protect.

Earlier this fall I sent a letter to a colleague. I had to work the system to get an address and, because the individual is private, when I put it in the mailbox I wasn’t certain whether it would be welcome or an intrusion. But I knew they were going through a difficult time and I thought that if I was in their position I would want to know I was supported and not alone. So I wrote it and sent it away, letting my fear of overreach dissipate as soon as the blue box gobbled it up. It would be ok or it wouldn’t — all I could control was my sincerity.

I had forgotten completely about the letter, spending a week battling my own demons, when I got a message from my colleague. They had neglected their mail for a while and when they opened their box at a truly low point my letter had been sitting on top of the pile. The entire message was warm and grateful, but I felt my heart tighten as my eyes stopped on one phrase: your words meant everything to me.

I would love to say that my vulnerability hasn’t harmed me, but it has. I have had letters used against me, my own words twisted into daggers to harm both me and the people I love. Those moments hurt, forcing me to question the wisdom of giving others weapons for their hate. But, I am buoyed by the many more times when my words have created true love and possibility. Friendships rekindled. Hope created. Trust built. No, vulnerability isn’t easy and it isn’t comfortable but I know one thing.

It is worth it.