The Truth You Don’t Want to See

Years ago, after my mom died, there were a few pictures taken of my two sisters and me at her funeral.

When I saw some of those pictures, I noticed something.

My hair sure looked light.

Really light.

But it didn’t look bad. Right?

Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the camera. Maybe my hair just photographed lighter than it actually was.

I didn’t think much more about it.

At least one of those pictures eventually made its way to my Great-Aunt Venice.

I loved Great-Aunt Venice. Whenever I was visiting family near where she lived, I would often stop by to see her.

But Venice and I didn’t call each other.

Ever.

So imagine my surprise when one day my phone rang—and it was Great-Aunt Venice.

I didn’t even know she had my phone number.

Venice didn’t waste much time on small talk.

She had seen the picture.

And she wanted to know:

“What the hell are you doing with your hair?”

Apparently, Great-Aunt Venice had opinions.

Strong ones.

My hair was way too light. It looked horrible that light. And I needed to do something about it.

I was taken aback, but I explained that my hair wasn’t really that light. It just photographed really light.

The problem wasn’t my hair.

It was the photographs.

Except there was one little problem with my explanation.

I had already noticed it too.

Sometimes We Prefer Fuzzy

We can have information sitting right in front of us and still not be willing to really see it.

Maybe you’ve noticed that you’re grumpy and negative a lot, but you tell yourself that’s just who you are.

Maybe you know you spend a lot of time waiting—waiting for friends to invite you, waiting for someone else to make plans, waiting for a man to show interest—but you have plenty of reasons why you shouldn’t have to be the one who reaches out.

Maybe you’re single and spend a lot of time thinking about everything men are doing wrong, but you aren’t particularly interested in considering how you might be participating in the results you’re getting.

Sometimes, when the picture starts getting clearer, we reach for the blur button.

We explain.

We justify.

We minimize.

We blame.

That’s what I was doing with my hair.

I had information.

I just wasn’t ready to let that information become clarity.

Why Seeing Clearly Can Feel So Scary

Today, I understand something I didn’t understand back then.

I wasn’t afraid of seeing that my hair was too light.

I was afraid of what I would do to myself if I admitted it.

Because back then, simply thinking, Yep, my hair is way too light. I don’t like how it looks on me, probably wouldn’t have been the end of the conversation in my head.

My internal ticker tape would have taken over.

How could you not see this?

You look horrible.

Everybody else probably noticed.

What were you thinking?

And I would have felt like shit.

Not because my hair was too light.

But because of the way I was talking to myself about my hair being too light.

Clarity and judgment were all tangled up together.

Of course fuzzy felt safer.

Maybe you do this too.

Something in your life starts coming into focus, and you blur it again because somewhere along the way you learned that seeing something you don’t like means beating yourself up for it.

But what if clarity doesn’t require that?

The life you want may require you to see things about the life you have that you don’t want to see.

There may be some discomfort in that.

But you get to choose which price you’ll pay.

You can pay the temporary discomfort of seeing clearly, or you can pay the ongoing cost of continuing to live with what you refuse to see.

The Woman Across the Restaurant

A couple of months after Great-Aunt Venice called me, I was traveling for work.

One morning, I was grabbing a quick breakfast in a hotel restaurant before my first meeting.

As I ate, I noticed a woman across the restaurant.

And I thought:

Wow. Her hair looks awful.

It was way too light.

Then, because apparently I was feeling especially generous and nonjudgmental that morning, I thought she needed to lose weight too.

Between being fat and that horrible hair, she looked awful.

Not my finest moment.

Then I looked more closely.

Oh. My. Gosh.

That woman was me.

The restaurant had glass and mirrored walls, and I had been looking at my own reflection.

I was the woman with the horrible hair.

And suddenly, I saw it.

My hair really was too light.

It wasn’t the camera.

It wasn’t the photographs.

Great-Aunt Venice wasn’t exaggerating.

Venice was right.

Although, apparently she decided the hair was enough for one phone call and graciously chose not to mention my weight.

Thank you, Venice.

Here’s what fascinates me about that moment now:

There was no new information.

I had already seen the pictures.

I had already noticed my hair.

Venice had already told me exactly what she saw.

The information wasn’t new. My willingness to see it was.

For those few seconds, I didn’t know I was looking at myself, so I wasn’t defending myself. I wasn’t explaining anything.

I simply looked.

And saw.

My hair was too light.

I didn’t like how it looked on me.

I wanted to change it.

That’s clarity.

They’re Dust Bunnies, Not Monsters

I think the things we refuse to see can become a little like dust bunnies under the bed.

We catch glimpses of them. We know they’re probably under there.

But we don’t really want to pull everything out and look.

Because whatever is hiding under that bed can start feeling pretty scary.

Then we turn on the light.

And it’s a dust bunny.

Not a monster.

That’s where compassion matters.

Compassion doesn’t shove the dust bunny back under the bed and pretend it isn’t there.

Compassion allows us to see what’s actually there without beating ourselves up for what we see.

There’s a difference between:

I’ve been waiting for other people to invite me.

And:

I’m pathetic.

There’s a difference between:

I’ve been pretty negative lately.

And:

I’m a miserable person.

There’s a difference between:

I’ve been telling myself everyone else is better than me.

And:

See? There really is something wrong with me.

Clarity tells the truth. Judgment weaponizes the truth.

With my hair, clarity allowed me to own what was true.

My hair was too light.

It wasn’t flattering on me.

I didn’t like it.

Then I could decide whether I wanted something different.

I did.

So I changed my hair.

I cleaned it up.

Turn On One Light

I’m not suggesting you make an inventory of everything about yourself and your life that needs closer examination.

Please don’t go searching under every bed for dust bunnies.

Instead, turn on one light.

What have you already started noticing?

Maybe it’s something you keep doing.

Something you keep thinking.

A pattern that keeps repeating.

Something somebody said that you immediately dismissed.

Or maybe it’s one of those things that catches your attention and is quickly followed by:

Yeah, but...

What if you didn’t explain it away?

What if you didn’t defend yourself?

What if you didn’t minimize it?

And what if you didn’t beat yourself up about it either?

What is actually true?

Be courageous enough to look.

And be compassionate with the woman who may have kept it fuzzy until now.

It probably made sense that she did.

Then, if you see something you don’t want anymore, you can decide what you want to do about it.

You can’t clean up what you’re unwilling to see.

Curiosity helps you notice.

Clarity helps you see.

And sometimes, creating a life you’re excited to wake up to requires turning on the light and being willing to see what’s actually there.

Chances are, there isn’t a monster under the bed.

There are just some dust bunnies waiting to be cleaned up.