Everything you ever wanted is on the other side of fear. This month we are looking at some of the fears in our lives that can hold us back from achieving our dreams. Those little voices that tell us that we aren’t good enough, that change is bad, that we should be afraid of the unknown, that we are not enough. Since each one of our fears is totally unique to us I will be talking about some of the hurdles that personally hold me back and what I do to push them back. While they may not be applicable to everyone I hope you can see that what we fear can be overcome.
I took my seat eager for the worship to start. The lights dimmed, and instead of music, a person took the stage. With quaking voice and tears they spoke of their journey, they spoke of their hardships, how they were overcoming adversity every single day. This is a common occurrence in the churches I was raised in, a dramatic testimony, an amazing story. Only I wasn’t at church this time, I was at a conference, surrounded by a thousand LGBT Christians, all of whom told heart-wrenching tales of loss and love. I left that conference with more friends and more hugs than I could imagine, but also with an ache I could not place until a few days later. My mountaintop experience had left me doubting my own my story. Did my journey even matter?
I have not been shy about talking my journey through my transition. Prior to 2016, I was locked in a prison of fear. I didn’t know if I was making a huge mistake or not. I was scared of the changes this would wreak on my relationships. I feared it would all end in failure, left alone and broken. At the beginning of 2016, I felt like I was entering a maze, unsure of how it would change me as I sought my way out on the other side. For decades those fears had held me back, forcing me into a role I was always uncomfortable with, one that I didn’t fit into very well at all. As I began to come out I found out I could voice these fears and survive. I discovered that I could speak of what I was learning, of who I was blossoming into without shame. Not once did I doubt if my story mattered, or if that story was unique, or if it would help people.
At the conference I was surrounded by those who had lost everything to be themselves, I meet people who knew more about theology, anatomy, sexuality, and gender than I could imagine. I made friends with those who expanded my definitions of faith and love. I was immersed in an environment where I was constantly learning new things and encountering so many stories that made my heart grow. Against this backdrop I wondered if my story even mattered. What could I add to this glowing tapestry of beautiful stories and experiences? I felt small. Irrelevant.
In truth, this is a common reaction for me, when I am at these sorts of events. In church, I would see the dramatic changes a faith in Jesus brought to people’s lives and wondered why I was left to struggle so very much with my gender. I would doubt my salvation, my faith journey, simply because I was never saved from alcoholism or a life of poverty. As my struggles grew worse over time, I wondered if God even cared, if I was somehow unworthy of the love freely offered to me. My experience at the conference was no different than those I went through in the church pews, the doubts it generated were no more true than the ones that made me question my faith.
Our doubts are painful, and often they are simply not true. Our fear of change, of failure, of the unknown, conspire together to wound us. That doubt can make us question even the most fundamental parts of ourselves. It can bring about That questioning is a double-edged sword, for within them we find a useful tool to help deconstruct and discover why we believe what we believe about faith, about love, and about others. It shines a light on why we feel our struggles and our stories are important to share. My feelings of inadequacy left me hurt for quite a while as I struggled to shape a new place for myself in the world without my story. It was a failure because I did not have to stop telling my story because I cannot stop living my story. My story does have worth, just as much as your own does. Maybe I will never get my book about those years of transition published; maybe I will never be on a stage to tell others about my journey? Maybe none of that matters? My friends, my family are all part of my story, to say that my story is not valuable is to also discount their stories. To say that I don’t matter is to say that the love I’ve received was not appreciated. My story matters simply because it is mine.
I don’t know why I was given my story, nor why I have a desire to tell people about it. It’s not the teller’s place to ask why only to speak her truth. This life is a gift, and now that I am finally in a place where I finally understand that, I want to share it with the world. All of our experiences, all of our journey’s, all of our lives matter. Don’t believe for a second that your story doesn’t matter because it does. It matters to your friends, it matters to your family, and it matters to you.
We each have a story to tell. Some on a grand stage, others under bright lights, some living simply, unashamed of who they are. Each of our stories are valid and we tell them in our own ways. I feel as if each story I hear is a gift, one I carry with me as I go about this life. Together we weaving a tapestry, sharing our lives, crossing our treads, tangling our stories together to form something greater. Something beautiful. Something grand. Each of the threads are needed. Each of the individual parts adds to the whole. This is why our stories matter. This is why we matter. This is why we will not remain silent.