Because of illness, I’ve spent most of the last few years apart from the world.
That withdrawal was necessary — for my health, my healing, and my peace. But now that I’m stronger, I feel the pull to return. And that return brings both anticipation and dread.
The world I’m returning to hasn’t changed much. It’s still full of people who say “we missed you” without really meaning it, who confuse pleasantries for presence, and who check off boxes labeled “ministering” or “service” without understanding what those words actually mean.
When I was at my lowest — bedridden, isolated, unsure if I would ever recover — I was assigned to people who were supposed to reach out to me. Most didn’t. Some ignored my calls. Others simply sent cards with their names and phone numbers, ending with “call if you need anything.”
I used to take that as an invitation, feeling I had to give more to get more. I’d call, write, even minister to them. But over time, I realized it wasn’t connection they were offering — it was obligation. It was the polite form of “love” that asks nothing of the giver and gives nothing to the receiver.
The few sincere moments I’ve experienced — the handwritten letter of mine to another that touched them enough to reach back years later, the genuine “how are you?” that wanted the real answer — those are the ones that have kept me expectant and hopeful for the same type of moments. But those moments are rare, and the absense of such has been disheartening.
Now, as I prepare to return to church and the world in general, I know I’ll face the same hollow greetings, the same surface-level warmth. I know I’ll be tempted to retreat behind my own mask again, to smile and say the expected words. But I can’t. I won’t. I’ve spent too long in stillness, too long learning who I really am, to trade that authenticity for social comfort.
And so I’m practicing what I call radical acceptance — accepting people as they are, not as I wish they were. I accept that most interactions will be shallow, that many people are still in their basements, and that my peace does not depend on changing them.
I’ve also discovered something unexpected: authenticity isn’t lonely after all.
I used to believe that being true to myself would mean walking alone. But in losing my dependence on others to meet my emotional needs, I’ve gained something far greater — freedom. Now, when genuine connection happens, it feels like grace. It’s no longer a need; it’s a gift.
I don’t expect real connection from anyone anymore. That expectation was rooted in hunger — my hunger for understanding, for belonging, for reciprocity. But I’m no longer starving. I’ve learned to feed myself.
And in that fullness, I find peace. Because the truth is, authenticity doesn’t isolate. It liberates. That fulness allows me to move through the world open, real, and unguarded — not because I trust everyone, but because I trust myself.
And if two authentic souls just happen to meet, even briefly? It’ll be enough.
(Missed the first part of this series? Read Part 1: I Hate White Women: The Cost of Being Pleasant )
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