Click above to hear me read this essay. Fair warning, it’s emotional.
I sound like a foul-mouthed old lady these days. The pain of each little reach or turn or step is so fierce it breaks past any bars of propriety and pleasantness. I murmur, mutter, grunt, and groan. Many nights, the pain is so fierce I scream.
I learned decades ago via almighty flannel graph that complaining—murmuring—is a sin so bad that whole generations of Israelites did not get to enter the promised land. (Read between the lines: they died. In the desert.) And all the wisest-sounding people on the internet say you’re not supposed to share when experiencing HALT. But if I waited to share until I no longer felt hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, I would never write.
We all know someone who lives up to the legend of flannel graphs, someone so negative—so bitter—about their suffering that they can’t see past their pain. We’ve all heard people who complain so much that they cloud over their own potential contribution to feeling any better.
I am here with my pain-laced thoughts to show you through my own story that, contrary to Sunday School sensibilities, complaint can be constructive. Our murmurings matter.
Honesty about what hurts doesn’t have to banish us from belonging.
The line between complaint and crying is hard to find. And it sure isn’t silver. All I know is that when life continues to hurt, I continue to need to be heard. And I bet you do too.
I fear becoming that friend, the one who’s too bitter to be near. I am tempted to look at most of what’s happened in my life since June 29, 2023 as a black hole.1 My work, habits, delights, physical appearance, and many abilities for living as an independent, functioning adult all got sucked into the void of health in my body. I have never felt so emptied out in my life.
And when I look back at the brutality of this last year, I realize that in every moment I’ve felt too broken, others still extended belonging.
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