If you’d tried to talk to me about fear, I would have quickly tuned you out. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I’ll jump out of an airplane, ride any roller coaster, stay calm in a crisis, walk down dark streets by myself, pick up strangers off the side of the road…

I didn’t know that the reason I backed away from arguments (especially with those I loved) was a fear of rejection. A learned coping mechanism rooted deeply in the belief that I would always lose the argument and to let it go so I didn’t lose the relationship too.

That voice constantly warning me against speaking up, reaching out to someone, joining in conversations with friends, making my voice heard every now and then – that’s fear. I avoided any situation that could become awkward. I went against instincts to ask questions and dig deep when I knew something wasn’t right with a friend; I didn’t want to make them feel awkward. I wouldn’t talk to someone who hurt or offended me, that would definitely be awkward. My heart burned to stand up for others, but the fear of upsetting someone, feeling uncomfortable or looking stupid was often stronger.

I went to a school outing when I was 13. My family had just moved to the downtown area of a brand new city, I was the oldest girl of 9 kids, my brother had just been born with Down Syndrome and an atrial septal defect, I carried emotional damage and a lot of religious legalism. I had all the weirdness of being 13 and was flying under the radar with a heavy heart.

So I wandered around this big, fun, summer picnic. I didn’t know how to insert myself with the groups of kids my age, I was out of place and carrying the dark cloud that I wouldn’t recognize and identify until 13 years later. I sat alone pretending to watch a ballgame – a space all too familiar.

A college-aged guy I didn’t know came over to talk to me. I don’t remember the whole conversation, but he asked why I was sitting alone, I imagine I probably shrugged and tried to pretend it was my preference. He sat with me for a few minutes and tried to talk to me. It was a little awkward, I didn’t know what to say or how to act, he probably didn’t know what to say to this random girl. I bet it wasn’t comfortable for him, but he saw me when no one else did, he talked to me and he told me not to forget that Jesus loved me. He didn’t have much to say and what he said was maybe a little cliche, but he didn’t let his own comfort stop him.

Months later, I was in a similar situation. I went to a lock-in – you know the things where you stay up all night eating pizza and playing games and sports? Still trying to find my place, still trying to find meaningful friends, still trying to enjoy activities and outings like my peers were. I don’t really remember the night, just the feeling of being out of place and having no one. So the next morning, I sat waiting on the sidewalk for my parents to pick me up, tired and alone. That’s when that same guy came by. I’m sure he said “Hey, how are you?” and I probably said “Fine.” But he must have seen the tears and rather than hurrying away to avoid an emotional breakdown by a teenage girl, he stayed.  I had nothing to say for myself, I couldn’t explain the emotion to myself much less someone else. I remember crying and being embarrassed, I don’t remember what he said, it wasn’t anything life-changing or profound. But he was there, and that was probably the very first time in my life that someone allowed my full emotion without judgment, just held space for me so I wasn’t alone.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget those two encounters. It reminds me that it’s not about me; that when I sit with someone who is hurting and I don’t know what to say and I feel uncomfortable, that it’s okay to be awkward and that healing is messy.

So let’s get awkward.