Here I am, writing my blog after I said I wouldn’t this week.

Soon after I declared my hiatus, I emailed my friend Elizabeth: “Can I email my private blogs to you? I want to say whatever the fuck I want to say without everyone reading them. But I also want to share them and have a structure for writing them.”

“Of course,” she said.

Then I noticed myself editing what I might send to her. What is too private? What is too secret? What is too revealing? Is there anything that I can say that she can’t be with?

Then I realized that I chose not to blog this week because I bumped up against my capacity to be authentic. There’s a degree to which I’m willing to share, and a degree to which I’m not.

I wonder about that. I mean, I understand it—it’s not as though our society welcomes full authenticity with open arms—but I wonder about it.

What am I so afraid of?

It’s not just the readers of my blog with whom I’ve bumped up against my capacity to be authentic. It’s present in at least two of my close, personal relationships. I am honest and forthright to a certain extent, but there is this moment when I decide that I cannot say the next thing. There is this moment that I stop trusting that it’s safe. There is a limit, I believe, to what the other can be with in me.

There are parts of me that are secret. Most of the time I feel justified in protecting those parts. They’re mine, and they’re personal. But they’re also the most raw aspects of my humanity. They’re the parts of me that I actually long to share. I long to be able to say, “Here is exactly what I’m feeling and experiencing” and to know that the listener will still love, honor, and cherish me. And, if I’m really honest, I actually hope that the listener will love me even more. I hope that he or she will see a fuller version of me and hold me in my fullness. That is what I really long for.

So what am I afraid of?

I’m afraid that they won’t be authentic in response. I’m afraid that they’ll protect my feelings, protect themselves, or otherwise withhold. I’m afraid that I’ll lay myself bare and that they will not say what’s authentic for them in return.

I’m afraid that I’ll be authentic, and they’ll be offended, confused, or hurt. I do not like impacting people in that way.

I’m afraid that they’ll start to pull away from me, and that I won’t know for sure that they are. I’m afraid of being in that awkward and vulnerable place where the status of our relationship is uncertain.

I’m afraid of feeling disconnected and not knowing how to fix it.

I’m afraid of making a mess of things. I’ve noticed that being authentic is like peeling away layers of an onion. I say what I think is authentic, but as soon as I say it, something else reveals itself and I realize that it is what’s actually authentic. Then I say that thing, and oops, that’s not it, and now it’s something else. I’m so uncomfortable in that process, and I often wonder, will this person bear with me? Is this ok? When will he or she have enough? Will I ever figure out what the fuck I authentically want to say?

Ultimately, I’m afraid of being with some of the consequences of being authentic.

Interestingly enough, I notice that I’m not afraid of losing someone if they tell me straight up that I’m losing them.

I’m most afraid of my authenticity being met with inauthenticity. I’m ok with hard, challenging, awkward conversations—I just want them to be real.

I’m not sure what to say here, or how to end this blog. I just wanted to share what I noticed.

Also, I have one friend with whom I have a clear promise that we can share anything. And I think we do. At least I do. And it’s no surprise that I feel incredibly seen, safe, and known with her.

I want agreements like that with more people, and I want to know it’s safe. I want to provide that space for others too. I want to be the kind of person who can be with anyone, no matter what, and to see them—all of them.

I want authenticity, and I want it to be our norm.

If you’re reading this, this is my invitation to engage in authentic relationship with me. I know it takes time to build trust, and I know it can get messy. But I’m someone who is willing to take that ride with you.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose