Relief in Relatability

And actually, my last blog post got censored. I initially used much more profanity than what you read in that post. Wix, watch out.

No matter. 

I said I’d be back soon. I’m back. I haven’t yet worked up the courage to publicly share my senior capstone project because I’m not sure I’m ready for it to be perceived by the general public. Sorry. But I’ll touch on a really small part of the whole idea. When I was giving my presentation speech, or rather, when I wrote it in my bed at four a.m. the morning prior, I wrote, “There is relief in relatability.” (A pretty remedial idea, but it clicked for me then.) I had the great privilege of having numerous intimate conversations with women who share a similar but different reality to me and each other. With each conversation that I left, I left feeling good. Not because we talked about amazing and joyous things, not for the most part, but because I felt a little less alone. Eventually, I didn’t feel alone at all.

Prior to working on this project, I never completely understood the sensation of “relating.” I’ve seen videos on the web of people talking about things that I’ve also been through and whispered to only myself and my phone screen, “Same.” I’ve read books and invested myself into a character because of traits that I know or experiences I’ve seen. I’ve had conversations with people about surface-level mundanities we can both agree suck, like shitty weather or an awful teacher. But truthfully, I don’t know if I’ve ever sat down with someone before the last three months and had an intentional conversation about the shared hard things we face and how they make us feel. Perhaps I am not as connected as I pride myself on being. I am an uncomfortable person — if you couldn’t tell. Strangely, most things I write about, most garbage I post onto the uber public unerasable internet, are things I’ve only ever said to my therapist or nobody at all. And if I have spoken to someone, it was not in the business of “relating” on the matter. I don’t like to be outwardly and out loudly emotional, at least not when it comes to my own complications. It is only when I am collapsing that I cannot withstand holding it in. I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone to say, “I feel the same way,” or “I’ve been through that too.” I didn’t realize how freeing it would feel to hear a fragmented sentence. 

I think I’m getting cringe right now. Stop. 

It is unfortunate that in order to feel even a semblance of solace about a misfortune, most often,  someone else must also experience it. That’s shit. But it helps to know there is mutual understanding. It is… relieving. Boom, brought it back around. 

People tell me that being able to relate to the things I have written or spoken about has helped them to some degree, which has always held weight for me. But I see it differently now, and I’m even more grateful that I’ve been able to do that for people. It actually makes me want to cry. I’m crying right now. Life can be lonely. Our experiences and feelings that follow can make us feel lonely; they’ll probably even make you feel crazy. Truly knowing that other people understand and can relate will do wonders to pull you out from under. I’m not gonna wake up tomorrow and have a heart-to-heart with every person in my life. I think I’d probably need a decent amount of Xanax and my therapist present to do so — but I encourage you to let out the things that weigh the heaviest on your shoulders and not just when you absolutely have to. Someone will understand, and it’ll feel so good to hear them say it. 

So there. Not sure what the big idea is here. I’m really hungry. Waiting on a Chipotle bowl. I suppose I’m just trying to say - I get it now. I hope you get it. I hope we haven’t lost the plot of relatability, and we can all work a little harder to connect with others in meaningful ways. 

Love you.

Daniela