There is a difference between secrecy and privacy

I have been in a wilderness season. I guess that’s what you call it when you find yourself in obscure places, deviating far from the path you thought you were on. 

Maybe it’s the wilderness, but it’s felt something like hanging off the face of a mountain, in a tent, during a blizzard, like those wild-eyed-mountain climbers. Only this was not a mountain I set out to climb. I much prefer the level ground where my feet are steady. 

In fact, I have a pretty healthy dose of fear of heights. I saw the movie Everest in the theaters and it was worse than any horror film I’ve seen. I almost got up and walked out because the heights were so dizzying and my anxiety so activated, I thought I would pass out. I vowed to never watch another mountain climbing movie again. 

I swiftly broke this vow in 2022 when I became shockingly obsessed with mountain climbing movies and documentaries. Somehow, watching these men and women faced with peril, but driven to reach the summit, brought me comfort. I needed to see people who had come to the absolute end of themselves, find a way to summon the strength to keep climbing. 

There are not a lot of people who can join you on a journey like that. There are not a lot of people who will camp out with you in a tent, hanging on the side of a mountain in a blizzard. I am beyond blessed to have a few friends who have done this for me over the past year and a half.

I value leading with vulnerability and authenticity. I have chosen to live my life out loud, gladly sharing my life and story in hopes of encouraging others. But this has been a quiet season for me. Because as much as I value sharing what I have learned experientially, I also deeply believe that it is important to process our pain privately before we share it publicly.

My emotional wounds are still quite fresh. My flesh is still exposed and requires the protection of balm and gauze. I’m not quite ready to rip the proverbial Band-Aid off and show the world my battle wounds. Yet. 

There has been a huge tension for me as I have made my life a little smaller and my voice a little quieter. It has felt like a contradiction to who I am. How can I lead from a place of vulnerability and authenticity if I cannot share the truest things about my life right here and now?

When someone asks me how I am doing, I have found myself bumbling for answers. My almost compulsive desire to be integrious stifles me from saying “fine” or “good” when I am not fine or good. One day in the  El Pollo Loco drive-through, the cashier rotely asked how I was doing. Truthfully, I was having one of the worst days of my life, but knowing it would not be appropriate to tell her about my terrible day, I eked out the word “good.”

I literally physically winced after the words came out of my mouth. As I drove away, I thought to myself “How can you say you are good when you know you are not good!? It’s a lie!” 

From that point on I came up with a new response for when people asked me how I was doing.

“You know what, I made it here today! How are you doing?” (Said with a slightly boisterous, comedic tone) 

That worked with strangers, but with acquaintances and outer circle friends, I still felt like I was hiding something. I processed this conundrum with a friend and she shared a thought that shifted all of the paradigms I held around this. 

There is a difference between secrecy and privacy. 

I needed to hear this. I needed to know that honoring my right to privacy is not the same thing as living inauthentically.

When I first left my exploiter, I had this sense that all of my choices mattered because one day I was going to share my story with someone else. I wanted to be able to tell them how I got through it. I still want this. I’m wired to want to share my lived experiences with others.

And yet, there is a pressure I have felt to place my story on the altar of the anti-trafficking movement. To give it away to the point that sometimes it has felt like it no longer belongs to me. I imagine other survivor leaders might share in this experience. 

Even outside of the anti-trafficking movement, for many of us with a “testimony”, there is the sense that our duty is to uphold the narrative of a success story. And if being a success story means that we are supposed to live on the summit, that doesn’t create a lot of space in our stories for the mountains we are still climbing. I wonder if this is part of the reason why so many leaders (church, corporate, NGO, political etc.) find themselves living double lives. They feel the need to pretend they are on the mountaintop when in reality, they are hanging off the side of a cliff. It’s hard to ask for help when, no one is supposed to know you’re struggling. 

I’m not sure if someone needs to hear this today. If not, I will tell it to myself…

Nobody lives on the mountain top.  

The mountain you are climbing today does not take away from the testimony of the mountains you have already climbed. 

There is a difference between secrecy and privacy. You are allowed to have privacy.

If you, like me, are wired to turn your pain into purpose, I want to remind you that you are allowed take the time you need to heal. It’s better not to share anything publicly that you have not processed privately with yourself, God, your inner circle, your therapist, or whomever you turn to for support.

When you have come to the end of yourself, when the summit seems unreachable, and you are certain you do not have it in you to take one more step forward, don’t give up. But feel free to set up a tent and take a rest. Tomorrow is a new day and you can pick up where you left off.

PS. This song has been the cry of my heart. Much to my daughter’s chagrin, I have played it approximately 7 gazillion times since last summer. I hope you love it as much as I do.