In a Closet of Emotions

There are multiple perspectives to every encounter.

What a simple statement. Nobody argues with it, but we don’t really think about it.

Instead, most of us are consumed with ourselves and our own five senses. We process the events around us in real time, crunching them like animated brontosauri crunch leaves—slowly, rhythmically, unapologetically.

In parenting, teaching, working, and living, I try to focus on empathy.

But then I think about my one-sided interpretations of life’s events, and how empathy is hard. We’re prone to assess social situations from one perspective: ours. We’re selfish. We make snap judgments. We criticize.

It’s natural.

I have become acutely aware of the differences in perception in my role as an admissions counselor at a private college. I meet with families regularly, and I know that whatever I do or say to them is immediately being processed and interpreted. The sound of my voice. My movements. How often I use their son or daughter’s name. My use of eye contact. How much I reveal about my personal life. I know that not only are they making snap judgments about me, but the educational institution for which I work, too.

The reality is, though, that they don’t have any idea what I am really like. They meet with me for a 45-minute time period in which I am performing a role, but they are able to assess who I am as a person and the place I represent based on that short meeting.

When I approach these students, shake their hands, and talk to them about their futures, I know that they do not care about me or the wrestling match I had with my daughter two hours before, trying to get her to take antibiotics for her sinus infection. They don’t know, nor do they care about the fight I had with my husband via text message earlier that morning, or the stressful encounter I had with a coworker who was displeased with my work, or the Snapchat messages I sent back-and-forth with former students which caused tears to well up because I miss them. And why should they care? They see our meeting as an interaction—a transaction even.

We’re performing roles that we think other people want to see in all aspects of our lives. We want to make our parents proud. We want everyone to think we’re living the dream, and our hard work is paying off.

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a student last year. “How do you do it?” He asked. “How do you come in here every day with a positive attitude?”

“Because,” I began, “I'm acting.”

I am acting when I meet people for the first time and rely on my over-the-top theatrical stories to make good impressions. I am acting when I shake hands with students and parents and talk about how AMAZING life is and how BLESSED I feel. I am acting when I post on social media photos of my smiling children and my happy life, even though you don’t see everyone’s daily meltdowns at suppertime when we all question the meaning of life and our love for one another and whether we should ever even make a meal again because nobody likes anything we ever make. Ugh.

Yes, I am acting. Aren’t we all? Aren’t you?

Last year, I taught a class of seniors who had known me since they were in 9th grade. Over four years, I had interacted with them all enough that I felt like they had a pretty good understanding of who I was, and I thought I understood who they were. I got along with some of them very well, and some of them hated me. This is how life goes. I tried not to beat myself up for not reaching every student in my class.

I know how I present myself. I want people to think I've got it all together. I try to wear fashionable clothes. I try to stay in shape. I smile all the time.

Spoiler: I don't have it together.

Toward the end of the school year, I did a speech for my students in which I revealed that my life growing up was not what they probably envisioned. I am the product of a volatile divorce. I have dealt with strained relationships with everyone in my immediate family. I haven't spoken to my dad in four years. I deal with depression and anxiety. I struggle with my weight. I spend too much money. I procrastinate.

Again, I don't have it all together.

I revealed some of this to my students, and you could have heard a pin drop throughout my speech. As I surveyed the room, I could visibly see some students' faces change when they watched me speak. They had this image of who I was-- and many of them didn't like that vision. But just telling the truth about me as a person caused them to truly understand me and see that their snap judgments about me weren't correct. Moreover, some of them felt more comfortable reaching out to me about personal problems because it was refreshing to see that someone has been through similar issues. We grow relationships by showing the ugly.

This morning, while getting ready for work, I had a thought.

In my home, my closet is supposed to be my own private space. My kids come in there and rifle through my jewelry, but I treat it as if nobody goes in there. Clothes that I try on and decide against clutter the floor. Empty suitcases are sprawled open, revealing their stomach contents of socks I didn’t wear and travel hairspray (one day, I'll get around to putting them away...). Discarded earrings missing their mates line my vanity top with my hopes that one day, their lost partner will reappear. My closet is a mess, but it’s me. I could identify 100 metaphors of who I truly am inside that closet, and they would probably make up the most clear representations of my emotions and motivations.

But then, if you walk just a few steps out of my closet, you would find a different atmosphere. Orderly, clean, freshly-vacuumed carpet. Accent pillows. Clean dresser tops. Carefully-selected wall décor. A floral table runner.

This is what people see, and this is what people assume is me.

I was sitting in my closet this morning, and my daughter approached me. “Mom, can we clean your closet today? It’s really messy.” She asks this regularly, clearly bothered by my unkempt space. I thought about how the contents of my closet, like my true self, makes others uncomfortable.

Or at least that’s what I think.

But then, if the contents of my closet makes her uncomfortable, why does she come in there every morning to try on my clothes and use my make-up brush and tell me I need to clean my closet?

Because it’s me.

Because even though we think it’s so important to impress one another and show that we’re living successful lives and are good humans, the ones who really love us will be there even when we show our ugly sides.

I’ve been struggling with this lately. Who am I on the inside, and who do I exhibit in the public? I think it is really difficult in our society to truly be yourself unapologetically, and that is because we’re aware that we, ourselves, are unforgiving, judgmental, and critical beings.

But is that really fair? Is it fair to others? Is it fair to ourselves?

The truth is, I don’t know. In today’s world, I struggle to know what is real and what isn’t. Who is lying, and who is telling the truth? When am I lying, and when am I telling the truth? We are so quick to judge one another, to determine someone’s worth based on first impressions, appearances, small-talk conversations, and social media posts that we are losing our identities, and we become broken.

So I urge you to consider using empathy—which isn’t easy. Really, honestly using empathy means giving people breaks.

You called a business and the person who answered the call was less-than chipper? Maybe she is dealing with making difficult decisions about her sick dad, and it isn’t because she is grumpy and doesn’t care about customer service. You greeted a coworker and his response wasn’t stellar? Maybe he is struggling with financial troubles which are causing tension at home, and it isn’t because he doesn’t like you. You met an admissions counselor and she seemed tired and frustrated? Maybe she is, and it has absolutely nothing to do with you or your college decision. It’s because her children are crazy and she is in a mid-life crisis and her jeans are too tight and she is having a bad hair day (probably).

Maybe one of these days, my daughter will get her wish and I’ll clean my closet.

Or maybe I won’t. Either way, she will still love me.