I just came from a party.  I met some lovely people.  I ate a little cake.  I wanted to be at this party.  I wanted to be with these people.  I also felt strange and sad today and like I could probably ruin any good party just by showing up.

There were balloons.  There were jokes.  There was small talk, laughing, and plenty of lighthearted fun.  But twice in the night, a point came where there was a choice to make – be polite and say what is expected, or tell an uncomfortable truth and be genuine.

I started trying to relentlessly tell the truth some years ago because I appreciate how efficient it is.  It either gets you where you were going to end up anyway, but much faster, or it takes you to some deeper place, usually just as fast.  It can be terribly uncomfortable, it tests your relationships, and it forces you to deal with yourself.

There are layers of truth (beautifully explored in Sam Harris’ brilliant essay Lying) ranging from active, intentional manipulation to omissions, to perceived kindnesses and many others.  While most of us can quickly and righteously condemn out-and-out dishonesty, few people have the huevos to keep going all the way to discarding the courteous white lie or socially standard lie.  And when you go all the way with honesty, crazy shit happens.

Tonight when there was no honest way not to say it, I responded to conversation with something like: “I am healing some heartbreak and I just don’t feel like myself all the time. I am in the waiting place where things hurt and are unfamiliar and I wish it would go faster, but here I am, waiting, feeling weird and uncomfortable. And I worry that I am a huge bummer and I might be like this forever.”

If there’s one thing every person who is over a certain age and a full liver of life knows, it is the heartbreak of losing someone you love and walking around with pieces missing, waiting to feel normal, not knowing if or when you will.  And the conversations that follow are gorgeous, personal, and rich with the deep stories that are as old as being human.  The fog of loss.  The convenient temptation of self-judgement.  The tragedy of what we can’t begin to control.   The frustration and numbness of trying to push aside what feels like it is taking much too long – even though it isn’t close to being done.  The pure effort of trying to stay present in discomfort long enough to honor your heart with truth, truth, and more truth.

Telling the truth speeds up life, but mostly it gives us all the gift of the chance to connect in incredible ways – or to see ourselves run away from it.  So please don’t ask me if you look fat in those pants.  You probably do.  And I’m going to tell you.