What day was it?
When exactly did you decide to stop? To tame it down. To hold it in. To bottle your emotions.
Was it a Sunday? A Thursday? Maybe it was a Tuesday.
When was it that you told yourself it was no longer acceptable to cry? To bawl your eyes out. To sob. To heave. To snort. To release.
To feel.
What day was the bill passed? When did you reach the verdict that you were just too much for people? That you would no longer be the complete, warts‑and‑all version of you— The person you were born to be.
When did you first reverse the action?
Learn to swallow the salt and halt the gush?
When did you master the skill of diverting the flow— of sending the tears back to the inside of your skull?
Have them wait at the rear entrance of your nose and only let them fall once you are safe and alone. Facing the back of the bathroom door with your head pressed into the damp dressing‑gown that hangs on the middle peg.
When did the tears that once flew so freely down those beautiful cheeks get downgraded to the inside of your fingers— to the creases of your frustrated hands?
When did we get into the habit of ramming hard our delicate, salt‑sodden eyelids into the heel of our palms?
When?
Whenever I publish a piece of content that shows me at my most vulnerable, I’m lucky enough to get replies. Comments that say:
You make me feel seen. Thank you for being real. Thank you for not sugar-coating it. You make me feel so normal.
These last two years have been an extremely vulnerable time, and throughout it all, you have taught me this: The thing we love the most, the thing we long for, are hungry for, is realness. Authenticity.
People who are real.
People who are honest. Human. Raw. Vulnerable.
People who are truly, madly, deeply themselves.
Yet we fear participating.
I fear participating.
Paris
Across the road from the famous Moulin Rouge windmill in Paris is a park. Tourists seek refuge in the shade of the trees. Old French men spend lazy Sunday mornings throwing silver boules down gravel alleys.
Between the windmill and the park is a subway entrance, a place where tourists stand and take selfies and wish they were Nicole Kidman and sponsored by Chanel.
We were there—me and Tess.
I was taking videos.
Portrait, of course. Not horizontal. No one does horizontal anymore. Only old people do that.
Phff. So lame. So very 2016.
There was a man and a woman, in their mid‑forties, a beautiful couple. Him: tall, dark, and handsome in an open‑neck blue linen shirt and parchment‑coloured pants. Her: as French as they come. Long black hair, big brown doe eyes, and hips no wider than my jaw.
They were standing across from the metro, at the entrance to the park, arguing. Above the traffic, horns, tourists, and FaceTime calls, they fought fervently.
Right there, in the open.
She cried freely. Animated. Exasperated. Pointing. Prodding his bare, tanned chest that heaved beneath two open buttons.
The man was crying. There was no hankie. No shame. The tears remained unwiped.
Oblivious that a crowd had gathered—and that their marital tiff was far more exciting than some boring old windmill whose arms don’t even turn—the couple continued their blaze.
The woman with the waving arms. The man with the wet eyes and dry sleeve.
I looked at Tess. Her phone was tucked inside her crossed arms. I widened my eyes. Brill.
The woman’s face inched closer to her lover, her lips and tongue working quickly to form words in French that were loud and throaty.
Her A-line skirt danced above strong knees every time she flung her hands above her head.
The language was foreign; the emotion was not.
The crowd swelled.
Engrossed. Mesmerized.
Tears coursed from both their eyes. Their energy was spellbinding. Puddles of sweat darkened the armpits of his shirt. The traffic fell silent. The audience held their breath.
Who, what, how?
We were all in. Committed to this love drama that upstaged the red‑and‑white windmill.
And then it happened. The man did something every woman who has ever loved wants.
He cupped the woman’s flushed, wet cheeks in both wide hands. Covered her mouth with his.
He held her tight.
And
kissed
her
passionately.
Her back arched in weak protest; their lips remained connected. The bone of her right hip pressed into the top of his left thigh. They swayed majestically—he forward, she back. Like tango dancers.
She tilted her head. Softened. Melted. He grew taller. He slipped one arm around her waist, touched her chin tenderly with the other. Her head fell to his chest. They whispered. Smiled. And kissed again.
And then, much to the annoyance of the gawping, sexless, dry-mouthed crowd, they turned their backs and walked away.
Passion. Emotion. Spirit. Zeal.
Affection. Joy. Anger, love. Tears, laughter. Giggles of youth, sobs of heart‑twisting, gut‑wrenching grief. Age-old, can’t-hold-it-in-any-more emotion.
Living.
All of it. Glorious, glorious, glorious.
Glorious living proof that we are alive.
In Japan, people go to “Crying Clubs.” This practice, known as rui‑katsu (tear‑seeking), lets people gather to weep. To cry openly. Research proves it eases stress and fosters connection, reduces anxiety and creates communal understanding.
I’ve never been to a crying club, but I know how good it feels to cry. It feels bloody wonderful. That must be why I do it so often. Crying doesn’t mean I am depressed or need medicating.
Crying is who I am. It’s who you are.
It’s who we all are. It’s real. It’s expression.
The tears. The mess. The snot. The relief.
The teeth. The realness.
The tongue. The choking. The rocking. The shaking.
The realness.
This is emotion. This is living.
I have spent the last six months inwardly and outwardly apologising for being too much— showing up as the real me: the grieving me, the angry me, the interrupting me, the beautifully happy me.
The worst of it is, I have no idea who I’m apologizing to. All I know is I don’t want to do it any more.
During this year away (and without a mother to reassure me), I am looking to change. To find the courage to show up just as I am. Un-ap-fuckingly-apolo-ge-tically. To bask in the flood of relief.
And I want you beside me.
Because, my lovely friend, answer me this.
What would it feel like to beat the shame? To stop apologising for who we are. Imagine if we lived exactly as our hearts intended? And felt free.
What would it feel like to truly embrace your youness? To stop dampening the fire to make others feel comfortable.
No need to put on. Or take off.
Imagine showing up as the lead role and not as the understudy.
Imagine that.
Wouldn’t that be glorious?
My tongue will tell the feelings of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break. —William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
Thank you for being on this journey with me. I love you for being here.
Until next time.
Yours, courageously and secretly-wishing-she-had-long-black-hair that she could flick in her fella’s face before having mad-passionate-no-chance-of-getting-pregnant sex in Paris
Liz x
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You have just read an essay that I first shared with my Front Row readers.
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PPS: Here is the latest podcast where I talk all about the month in Paris. I am very much in my emotional bravery state.
