My mom has often said that I overshare.
That I tell too much of my past, my story, my mess to people who aren't vetted. People who haven't earned the right to know the real me. This conditioning started early.
As a kid, I thought my parents were perfect. Not because they said they were, but because they carefully tended to the idea of it. We didn't have people over. We didn't go to parties. We passed on vacation invitations. And for years, I thought it was just preference, that my parents were private people who guarded their “circle.” My dad proudly boasted, “I have no friends.” My mom resolutely reminded me why she “doesn't like women.”
But over time, I started to wonder.
Was not having people over a way to hide how much my dad wasn't home? Was passing on invitations avoiding embarrassment about how little time we spent together as a family outside of church? Was the real reason that they didn't socialize an attempt to insulate themselves from the simple, curious questions that might come up? The kind of questions that acquaintances and friends ask in casual conversation without thinking much of it.
It was all framed as savvy, smart self-preservation. Political prowess, even. The way to success, or the way to keep it, meant an untarnished brand against a backdrop of traditional values, behaviors, and appearance. Respectability politics.
I learned early that the way to survive was to keep secrets. To keep the hard parts quiet. To only show the version of me that was acceptable. Safe.
But hiding didn't protect me. It just made me small. It made me believe that the real me – the messy, flawed, imperfect me – wasn't worthy of being known. So I set out to live a life I didn't have to hide, even if others wanted me to. Over time, I built a resolve that refused to shame myself or be shamed by others.
This felt threatening for my mom. Hence, the advice against oversharing. My mom felt my honesty would be weaponized. That people would use my truth against me. What would people say about me? Think about me? How would they use the intimate details they'd learned about me?
I won't say I didn't care. But my yearning to live free far outweighed attempts to maintain a facade. You can't weaponize information I've given you. You can't use against me what I share freely.
I've shared about my divorce. My failures as a partner. The times I got it wrong as a parent. The times I was selfish, prideful, harsh. The times I wasn't the woman I wanted to be.
And I haven't regretted it yet. Because when you own your story, you take away its power to be used against you.
But it's not just about sharing my past. I used to hide my in-progress work, too. I'd only share what I'd already mastered, afraid people would throw my work-in-progress in my face. Saying things like:
"I thought you were…" or
"Aren't you the same person who says…?"
Yes, it’s true. There are times I fall short of what I say I'm about. I’m still trying…and falling short, regularly. That's not proof I'm a fraud. That's proof God's still working.
I'm not afraid of you pointing to areas of my life and calling me inconsistent. Growth looks like change. Redemption looks messy. Yes, I am further along in some areas than others. I own all of it.
You’re not less of a Christian, a CEO, or loving parent because you're still in progress. The work-in-progress is still the work.
The truth is, people already know you're not perfect. Pretending you are doesn't protect you, it just makes you perform. And performance is exhausting.
My secrets don't protect me. My truth does. Not just the flattering truth. The whole truth.
Psalm 107 says, "Let the redeemed of the LORD tell their story."
That word "redeemed" in Hebrew is ga'al. It means to be bought back. Rescued from the hand of the enemy. Brought home.
The entire 107th Psalm is a list of people in impossible situations.
People wandering in the wilderness. People sitting in darkness and the deepest gloom. People caught in storms, reeling and staggering. And every single time, the text says the same thing:
"Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress."
Redemption is available. And your story of how God delivered you is what holds someone else together when they don't believe rescue is coming for them.
Let the redeemed tell their story.
If you truly believe you are a recipient of grace (which we all are), then sharing the real you, and what God's done with your life in spite of it, is your literal superpower.
Your story might be divorce. Bankruptcy. Heartbreak. Substance abuse. Manipulation. Judgment of others. Deceit. Disobedience. None of that disqualifies you.
It illuminates the beauty of a God who never stops pursuing us. A God who always has a ready path of redemption waiting.
Consider…
Where are you still performing, curating, sanitizing your story to maintain a version of yourself that feels acceptable?
What do you believe people will say, think, or do with the truth about you?
What is it costing you to keep hiding?
I love you.
Coi Marie
Affirmation:
Performance is exhausting. I choose truth.
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