A Life With the Curtains Open

I live on the fifth floor, and I sleep with my curtains open.

I hadn’t really thought much about that until recently. I simply like them open. I like seeing the last bit of the world before I fall asleep, and I like waking up to whatever light the morning decides to bring.

But lately I’ve wondered if there is something more to it.

Maybe I like my curtains open because that is how I want to live my life.

Not exposed. Not without privacy. There are parts of me that belong only to me, and parts of my story that aren’t mine alone to tell.

But without hiding.

Without maintaining one version of myself for this person and another for someone else. Without needing darkness to protect choices I couldn’t comfortably make in the light.

I want a life where the curtains can stay open.

A life where I can look honestly at the things I have done well and the things I wish I had done differently. Where I can admit when I have been wrong without believing that being wrong makes me bad. Where I can change and grow instead of rewriting yesterday to make myself more comfortable today.

And when someone hurts me enough that my own thoughts begin to feel darker—sadder, angrier, lonelier and less lovely—I want to remember what I see every morning from those open windows.

The light comes back.

It always does.

And perhaps the most important thing I am learning is that I don’t have to abandon myself while I wait for it.

I have been thinking lately about the space between being a victim and being a doormat.

Maybe because life occasionally hands us seasons when several things hurt at once.

Nothing necessarily catastrophic. Just disappointments, changed relationships, uncomfortable silences, people making choices we don't understand, and moments when we realize that someone we care about may not be willing—or able—to treat us the way we hoped they would.

And when that happens, I have a tendency to remind myself of something I have believed for most of my life:

Don't be a victim.

I still believe that.

I don't want to build an identity around what someone else did to me. I don't want to keep score, rehearse grievances, collect evidence of unfairness, or hand another person permanent ownership of my happiness. I don't want anger to become my personality or disappointment to become the lens through which I see the world.

But I am beginning to understand that there is an important sentence that belongs right beside that one:

Don't be a doormat either.

Because refusing to be a victim does not require pretending something didn't hurt.

Grace doesn't mean unlimited access.

Forgiveness doesn't require continued tolerance.

Understanding why someone behaves the way they do doesn't obligate me to stand in the path of that behavior.

And choosing not to retaliate doesn't mean I have to smile while someone repeatedly steps on my toes.

There is a middle ground, and perhaps that is where self-respect lives.

It is the place where I can say, I understand that you have your reasons, while also saying, this is not okay for me.

It is where I can acknowledge that someone hurt me without making myself helpless.

Where I can be angry without becoming cruel.

Where I can be disappointed without becoming bitter.

Where I can care about someone and still move farther away from them.

Where I can give grace without giving away pieces of myself.

And maybe there is another person to whom I owe some grace.

Me.

I can give myself grace too.

I don't need anyone's permission for that. I don't need anyone's approval. I don't need another person to agree with my version of events before I am allowed to acknowledge my own experience.

Sometimes hurt can make our thoughts darker than they usually are. Sadder. Lonelier. It can make a life that ordinarily feels full of possibility suddenly feel smaller.

When that happens, I want to remember something.

There was light before the darkness.

There was laughter. There were sunsets and long walks and music turned up too loudly.

There were airplanes taking me somewhere I had never been and familiar places I couldn't wait to see again. There were books and dinners and conversations and ordinary Tuesdays that somehow became wonderful. There were people I loved. There were adventures I hadn't even imagined yet.

There was joy before whatever hurt me.

Which means the person or circumstance that brought darkness into my life cannot possibly be the source of my light.

I was already carrying that.

And I still am.

Perhaps that is one of the most important things we can remember when we are hurting: we do not have to abandon ourselves to protect someone else.

We don't have to make ourselves smaller so someone else can remain comfortable.

We don't have to carry another person's secrets, explanations, choices, or consequences as though they are our responsibility.

We don't have to participate in a version of ourselves that somebody else has created because that version makes their own story easier to live with.

People are allowed to misunderstand us.

That one has taken me some time.

Someone can think I am selfish when I believe I am protecting myself. Someone can think I am difficult when I finally say no. Someone can remember a story differently than I do. Someone can decide that I am the problem in a situation where I know the truth is far more complicated.

And perhaps I don't have to correct all of it.

Because I know who I am.

Not perfectly good.

Not perfectly wise.

Certainly not someone who has always made the right decision.

Just human.

Imperfect in countless ways and still willing to look honestly at myself.

I have made mistakes. I have choices I would make differently with what I know today. I have moments I am proud of and others I would happily rewrite.

But I don't want to rewrite my history simply to make myself more comfortable with it.

I would rather learn from it.

I would rather be able to say, I wish I had handled that differently, than spend years constructing a story that makes me right.

There is enormous freedom in telling ourselves the truth.

Maybe that is because truth doesn't require maintenance.

A life built on secrecy requires constant tending. You have to remember what was said, what wasn't said, who knows what, what must remain hidden, and which version of the story belongs where.

I don't want that life.

I have worked very hard to build one that doesn't require lies and secrecy.

It is not perfect.

But it is mine.

And I can stand in the middle of it with the curtains open.

That matters to me.

I think sometimes we confuse strength with being unaffected. We admire the person who brushes everything off, keeps smiling, takes the high road, and never lets anyone see that something landed.

But maybe strength isn't being impossible to hurt.

Maybe strength is being honest enough to say, that hurt, wise enough to ask what it is trying to teach us, and brave enough to decide what we will and will not allow going forward.

I am responsible for my life.

That doesn't mean I am responsible for every painful thing that happens inside it.

Other people are allowed to make their choices. They can misunderstand me. Ignore me. Disappoint me. Exclude me. Choose relationships I don't understand. Rewrite stories differently than I remember them. They can decide what they are willing to give me.

That is their freedom.

But I have freedom too.

I get to decide what I participate in.

I get to decide how close I stand.

I get to decide what behavior earns access to me.

I get to decide when a conversation is worth having and when silence is actually the healthier answer.

And perhaps most importantly, I get to decide what happens next.

That is where victimhood ends.

Not because nothing unfair ever happened.

Not because nobody behaved badly.

Not because I imagined the hurt.

It ends because I refuse to give what happened the authority to determine who I become.

And I don't have to become a doormat to prove it.

I can remain soft without being easily walked over. I can be forgiving without becoming endlessly available. I can be compassionate and still have standards. I can wish someone well from a distance.

And I can acknowledge sadness, anger, disappointment, loneliness, and grief without being ashamed of any of them.

They are feelings.

They are not identities.

Maybe emotional maturity isn't learning how not to feel these things.

Maybe it is learning how to feel them without surrendering ourselves to them.

So when life feels darker than I want it to, perhaps I don't need to immediately fix the darkness.

I can sit with it for a while.

I can learn from it.

I can give myself grace while I move through it.

And then I can remember the light.

Because ultimately there is only one life for which I am completely responsible.

Mine.

And I want to do one thing incredibly well:

Live it.

Not perfectly.

Fully.

I want to find joy and happiness and ridiculous amounts of fun in ordinary days. I want to notice beautiful skies. I want to walk until my legs are tired. I want to travel to places I've never seen and return to places I already love. I want to laugh. I want to learn. I want to change my mind when I discover I was wrong. I want to love people generously without requiring them to become who I want them to be.

And yes, sharing all of that with someone special would be lovely.

But my life is not a waiting room.

I am not sitting here waiting for someone to arrive before it begins.

There are people I adore. There are places I haven't seen yet. There are adventures still waiting for me. There are ordinary mornings that haven't happened yet.

There is a little girl who calls me Honey, and I already know that loving her will be one of the great privileges of my lifetime.

My life is already full.

If someone wonderful someday walks beside me, I hope I will have the courage to make room.

And if no one does, I hope I will have the wisdom to recognize that I was never walking alone in the first place.

Most importantly, I want to remain loyal to myself.

Kind without disappearing.

Forgiving without forgetting my worth.

Compassionate without abandoning my boundaries.

Honest enough to admit my mistakes.

Brave enough to leave the curtains open.

And unwilling to trade my light for someone else's comfort.

I am not a victim.

I am not a doormat.

I am an imperfect human being with one beautiful life to live.

And I intend to live the hell out of it.

Tonight, I'll sleep with the curtains open.

🍯 A Honey Note

Never confuse having a soft heart with having to make yourself small. Give people grace, but save some for yourself too. And when life feels dark, remember: you don't have to fight the darkness. Just keep making choices that let the light back in.

🐝 With love from Honey

Keep your heart soft, your curtains open, and your face turned toward the light.

There is so much lovely life waiting for you.

— Honey 🐝