One of the downsides of getting old is the amount of shadows you accumulate. Some might call it baggage, trauma, skeleton. As adults, we work hard to put it behind us or hide it, but some are stubborn and they linger.

I suppose I have a big one.

It haunts me every time I get excited about someone. I wonder if they’ll really be able to see me and like me for who I am. Hidden under that initial excitement is a thick sticky layer of anxiety, inferiority and anticipation of that inevitable, dreaded conversation.

I pride myself for being an honest person, something I’ve worked hard on for the past several years. Those conversations are always a test - can I, in this critical moment of all or nothing, still be honest about something I’d rather take to the grave? My palms are sweaty and heart racing. I can barely look at them.

Sometimes all goes well. I receive acceptance, and a huge weight is lifted off of my shoulders. Sometimes it’s a resounding no. The world crumbles and I’m sent into endless self-shaming and spiral (yes I do feel intensely).

How I wish things were different, simpler. How I wish I could redo the worst parts of my existence. It’s excruciating when I see hope AND know that there’s nothing I could do to change the outcome.

Sometimes I do wonder if it’s better to say nothing at all, and pretend that conversation would never arrive. But deep down, I’d know that if that were the case, I wasn’t being seen fully, and maybe not loved fully.

Which is all I want - and hope to give - at the end of the day.