Performance
The person everyone loved was never really me.
There is a peculiar loneliness that comes from being admired.
Especially when the admiration is directed toward someone you had to become in order to survive.
The capable one.
The funny one.
The dependable one.
The strong one.
The spiritual one.
None of these are lies.
But neither are they the whole truth.
Sometimes we spend so many years becoming the person we believe others need that we quietly lose touch with the person we actually are.
The applause grows louder.
The ache grows deeper.
Because admiration can never satisfy the longing to be known.
Only love can do that.
And only love directed toward the real person.
I’ve begun to wonder if one of our deepest fears isn’t rejection.
It’s being discovered.
What if they see who I really am?
What if the version they’ve loved isn’t actually me?
Perhaps that’s why performance is so exhausting.
It asks us to keep earning a love that was never reaching us in the first place.
The mask can be admired.
The role can be celebrated.
The performance can receive a standing ovation.
But only the real person can receive love.
Perhaps freedom begins the moment we stop asking,
Who do I need to become?
and begin asking,
Who have I been all along?
A Blessing
May you grow weary of every performance that keeps you from being known.
May you discover the quiet courage to bring your whole self into the light.
And may you find the deep joy of being loved, not for who you have learned to become, but for who you have always been.
KKKEEEVVVIIIINNNN - I love this. I LOVE THIS. SPOT ON.
"May you grow weary of every performance that keeps you from being known."
Okay sir. I receive.
And I am only calling you sir right now because that is how much I respect that BEAUTIFUL ONE LINER. That one liner is a novel, more like ten.
DUUUUDDDDE. Seriously. So good. I loved this. I have seen that I am becoming more and more me. I did a video the other day and I messed up and I used the same word a couple of times but I was like WHO CARES. People are going to love me for my mistakes, corkiness (I dont even know what the word means but it sounds good), vulnerability, and unpolished-ness.
Your writings have only validated that I can be me. I can make mistakes. I do not have to perform. AND. I. APPRECIATE. THAT. SO. MUCH.
Thanks Kevin, Ashley :-)
Spot on, Kevin! Performance brings acclaim, and that is a wonderful feeling. But as you so clearly explained in this prose piece, that does not bring balm for the hurting heart. Removing the performer’s mask is hard for the performer, yet the exposure must be borne if that starving heart is to be nourished and thus survive. M