It is no secret that young adults are fools. Vivacious and uncannily splendid, yes, but nonetheless fools. I must regretfully admit that I was not exempt from this sophomoric rite of passage: I flew into rages, exalted myself, and looked down on others. All in the regular course of being a teenager as our soft hearts of childhood become hard and sharp.
But then life catches up with us. Some crevices hardened, but others began to soften. I have struggled tremendously with the idea of having a softer heart. It’s hard to be soft and tough to be tender. I like to think that some of my edges have softened; I am not hell-bent to always be right, and I don’t feel obligated to be aloof around my peers. Soft is good.
But I don’t think soft is always wise or safe. There are times when a hard heart is necessary. I know that’s not very Christian of me, let alone charitable, but for now I’ll stand by that statement. There’s the simple reason that people can only take in so much; we can only handle a few sorrows at a time, not a thousand. Trying to take in everything in this world is exhausting and impossible—trying to be a one hundred percent Christian is exhausting and impossible—so I never wear my heart on my sleeve.
Then there’s the not-so-simple reason that I keep deep grudges of hurt in my heart and I cannot let them go (or at least, not now.) I have no desire to dig out those badges of pain. I have no desire to drag those things out and pretend to work them out with the people involved who are also family and friends. (In my defense, most of these items in my laundry list of grievances are far from petty. My mother said I couldn’t complain about how a lancet in biology class hurt because I was self-harming. My parents never understood my mental health beyond just “feeling down.” The person who took advantage of me in nearly every way possible. The professor who never gave me the chance to explain because he was too busy with other problems and blamed me.)
For a long time, I held that self-awareness was the highest prize one could obtain. My obsession with analysis of both myself and others comfortably established me as the perfect Enneagram five wing four among my friends. I could shoot off neatly packaged remarks with shrewdness and insight, sometimes even a bit of grace if they were lucky. But now I’m coming to the uncomfortable realization that self-awareness is not the same as healing.
Healing is touted as a great prize nowadays, along with sappy-sounding stuff like self-love and body positivity. There’s certainly merit in it, but I am wondering how steep the price must be for healing to be worthwhile. I can function fine and not feel excessive emotional anguish despite my neglect of healing. Is that wrong of me? Does every good thing necessarily have to be pursued? Maybe I sound like Ishmael now, asking the Baudelaires why bother rocking the boat.
Is it better to stifle everything inside and keep a lid on it or to let it out in a torrent of bitterness and emotion? In many ways, I have a soft heart. But I also choose for it to be hard in certain areas. Maybe it’s weakness and cowardice, maybe it’s a necessary coping mechanism—maybe both. But you know what? For now, I’m okay with that.
Mm. A lot to unpack here.
First, gratitude is in order for positing your questions here, allowing us to see you in another light but also the opportunity for turning your words inwards, to our own lives.
A simple answer would be that softer is better. But I believe hardness has a place. Not a permanent place, but we are not to be doormats. And I know that it is possible to function holding all the pain inside, that hardness can become a part of life, can be learned to be “not that bad.” But I think that too is missing out on something. The “healing” you mention. Perhaps it is merely the understanding that something is missing, something better than the familiar pain. And I totally get not wanting to give that up. It’s familiar, it’s “a part of you.” Is digging it up really worth it?
Again, a simple answer, yes. Permanently, yes. In the moment, not so much. It is a different pain. A bothersome one. One that we wouldn’t have to face. And it’s fine that we may not be able or ready to face them, as we are. Knowing that we must one day may have to be enough. Or we don’t. And then we will have to face the consequences of whether or not we lived fully.
And that’s something unpleasant to think about too. Especially in the moments of soft heart. Because I think we want to be “the better version of ourselves.” We just don’t know how sometimes. And that’s (stupidly simplistic answer) life.
There are plenty of sorrows. Plenty of joys. I wish you well on your way to unpacking them. And I happen to have a pair of ears, if you need a listener.