So much of the time I just want to slap an out of order sign on my forehead. I want to set down the toolbox I’m carrying around, filled with strange nuts and bolts and contraptions that look like Mr. Krabs morphed with a butter knife. I want to quit acting like Bob the Builder taught me anything about fixing myself.

I just want to say, “I don’t have any of this figured out. Come back later.”

But what good would that do? 

It is so human to not know the difference between a nail and a screw. We’ve all got broken hearts that need something a little stronger than a power tool to fix. 

But that’s how we love, we show up on each others front steps in 8 billion pieces, carrying tools like empathy and honesty and a lot of chocolate and wine. And we look at each other when it’s really really hard to. When it would be so easy to look away. When it would be so easy to check out, to give up trying to understand. When it would be so easy to put your own shoes back on and stop walking in theirs because the smell is too foul. Instead, we light candles and we hold each others hands. 

That’s really all this whole thing is, a bunch of messy people pretending to be better than we are. And we are all far more gross and egotistical than we care to admit.

If I’m being honest, I like the idea of people thinking I have a really shiny, happy, carefree life. Why wouldn’t I? No one sits there and says, “Hey, I’d love for everyone to know about the really dark, ugly, heartbreaking parts of my life.” If you do, that sounds like a personal problem. Y’all should sort that out.

But the reality is, my life isn’t sunshine and rainbows. There’s a lot of messes laying around, a bunch of leaky windows and it’s scary having my heart sometimes. 

And if I’m being honest again, people exhaust me. A lot of the time, the thought of simply telling them about the movie I saw last week drains me, so wrapping my mind around sitting in front of them, leaky and crooked and judgmental, and letting them see everything that is broken... That’s a wild thought. 

But that’s real. And I am not here to live anything less than a real life. I don’t think you are either. 

We patch up the best when we get rid of all the fancy shrubbery and gardens covering our dilapidated hearts. Then we throw all of our quirky, mismatched, oddly shaped tools into one pile and say,

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”