The dog I’m taking care of this week wakes me up at 6:30 every morning to go for a walk. A natural night owl, this routine does not impress me. Still, I knew it was “a thing” when I signed up for the gig. Today I flopped back down on the mattress after our stroll, intent on getting some more rest. And whereas I finally fell asleep, it took a while. When my alarm went off two hours later, I was in a daze. Surely it’s not to time get up already, I thought. And yet it was. It was time.

The day itself has been go-go-go. First I had therapy, then physical therapy. Then I saw my chiropractor (it clearly takes a village to keep this mind and body in shape), then came back “home” to walk the dog and shove some food down my throat. Then I went to my friend Marla’s writing class. I was thirty minutes late, but–shit–it was one of those days. We do the best we can.

Back at the house, I noticed I missed some calls from my parents. Then I saw them drive by and thought, Oh crap. Someone has died. They couldn’t get me on the phone, so they’ve chased me down. Thankfully, this was not the case. They just happened to be in the neighborhood at my aunt’s and wanted to take me out for a late dinner. Anyway, it was the nicest surprise, the perfect end to a long day. We had lovely conversation, laughed a lot, said “I love you.”

Lately I’ve been thinking about embarrassment. My embarrassment. The truth is, and I feel like I’ve said this before but jokingly, there are a lot of things in my life I don’t love right now. A lot of things I’m embarrassed by. Like, uh, living back at home with my parents. Like walking other people’s dogs for a living. Not that I’m not grateful for a place to stay and money in my pocket–I am–but I’m almost forty and–believe it or not–have other aspirations for my life. Aspirations that don’t involve picking up warm poop with a plastic bag. On the one hand (the hand I pick up the warm poop with), it’s not something I’m–um–proud of.

On the other hand, and I was thinking about this on the way to therapy today, I am proud of myself. What I mean is that even if no one else knows or acknowledges it (and I don’t expect anyone to), I know what’s inside of me. I know what my dreams are, what I have to offer, and what the deepest parts of me both want and need to express. I could go into detail, but suffice it to say that if I got to the end of my life and, looking back, realized I’d lived my life like everyone else or lived for the approval of others, I’d regret it. This is to say that although I often feel embarrassment about not having a lot to show outwardly for these last few years, I have zero regrets about the internal work I’ve done. Plus, I do have the outward work of this blog, and this blog has forever changed me for the better–as a human being and as a soul.

This is no small thing.

Additionally, these last few years have afforded me a lot of opportunities for healing with respect to my family. My parents and I have had numerous conversations–truthful, healing conversations–that never would have happened had I not been living back at home. At least they hadn’t happened in the thirty-six years prior to my return.

My therapist says that some people think that you can heal anything with Vick’s Vapor Rub. “Some people think it’s a universal salve,” she says. “Well, the universal salve for most every emotional problem we ever have is honesty.” This has been my experience–that simply by stating the truth, healing begins. It’s why I’m saying tonight that I often feel embarrassed. I’m not looking for anyone to make me feel better about my situation, for acceptance, or even for understanding. I’m just stating facts. On the one hand I feel embarrassed. On the other hand I’m proud and grateful and wouldn’t change a thing.

I get that this is a paradox. Go figure. Life is a mystery.

My therapist and I have an ongoing discussion about being vulnerable and being honest, since it’s popular in today’s culture to equate the two but we don’t. That it, I don’t consider myself vulnerable for getting on the internet and saying I’m gay, I’m terrified of money, or I’m embarrassed. Because these things are–at least some of the time–true. Well, the gay thing is all-of-the-time true. As I told my mom tonight when we were discussing these topics, “Maybe I’d be vulnerable if I believed I needed a certain response from people, but I don’t. Children are vulnerable. Kidnapping victims are vulnerable. But someone who simply states the truth and lets the chips fall where they may–I think that person is anything but vulnerable. I think that person is strong.” At least I feel strong whenever I’m honest, strong being the exact opposite of how I felt all those years when I was trying to hide the truth in an effort to manage other people’s impressions of me.

Honestly (get it, we’re talking about truth), this is the only reason I’m as honest as I am, because of the results. Time and time again the simple truth has given me healing (with myself and with others) and peace of mind. People call me brave, bold, crazy, whatever for putting everything out there. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions, but in my opinion these labels aren’t accurate. For me, if I’m anything, I’m just lucky enough to (finally) be able to see what works and what doesn’t. Trying to impress others, ignoring your feelings, and biting you tongue–these things don’t work. The truth does. Is it scary, foreign, and often difficult to tell the truth, to be honest first with yourself and then with others? Damn right it is. But does it get easier the more you do it, and does the truth set you free?

Absolutely.

So, in plain language, this is the ticket you’ve been looking for. Listen close. To quote Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, “I’m giving you pearls here.” If you want to be free, start by getting honest.