Message Received

The phonetic alphabet, also known as the spelling alphabet, is used to avoid confusion from same-sounding letters. Anyone who’s seen war films, was forced to watch M.A.S.H. as a young kid, used walkie-talkies, or played electronic Battleship is familiar with this.

Examples are Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. Foxtrot. Tango. Did you know the one for “W” is Whiskey? And “J” is Juliet which means “R” is Romeo.

But before Romeo, there was another term. During WWII, the military would used the term “Roger” to mean the message had been received and understood. Roger that. Copy that. Over.

NASA astronauts used “Roger,” and that, coupled with movies, led to its incorporation into our civilian vernacular. Or maybe just the vernacular of anyone 40+, since I would guess that's the minimum current age of kids who were able to endure M.A.S.H. for the sake of getting to stay up a few minutes longer.

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I enjoy watching the efficiency of these terms. It almost feels like we should all still be taught Morse code or the phonetic alphabet. I mean you just never know. I’m always wildly impressed that there are people out there who are skilled at Morse code, who can differentiate and so clearly read between the lines (and dots).

This summer, I hiked with a friend who I used to see regularly but since her move, I see her less frequently. I love this friend because we can always talk about real things. From the very start, I observed that if I said something weird or particularly deep or revealing, she stayed with me. This is not always the case for me, and it’s a beloved quality in friends. And our friendship has allowed for the continuation of that kind of depth, with personal topics often being the subjects at hand. She’s a favorite.

On this hike, we both shared some new information about ourselves, perhaps leaving us both feeling a little vulnerable. It might have gotten a tiny bit tense because agreement was not ascertained, nor the goal. But it’s always a little weird when someone says something and the other is like, oh i maybe disagree with that. Have we practiced disagreeing together yet? I didn’t really feel that clear tension with her this time, but you’re just never sure. However, with this friend there is trust there, and I am always willing, if not desirous, to try to add some depth and complexity when the variables are right.

A few months later, I realized we hadn’t really talked since then so I reached out to check in and say hey. I wanted to be sure what I shared was ok, and apologize if I’d made her uncomfortable.

She replied saying she was totally fine with what I’d shared but had been feeling over-exposed by what she had shared. You know that vulnerability hangover we get when we’ve shared more than we’re used to and we don’t know if it landed right or was in trusted hands and we want to reverse-word vomit and vacuum it all back? Yeah. That’s real.

During our conversation on the hike, I remember thinking that it was not too weird, was understandable, and did not change the way viewed her. In fact, it made me appreciate her more.

But I realized I hadn’t been successful at expressing that. Or at least, it warranted reiterations.

This is all part of my continuing mission to be better at receiving what others have to offer, especially if it is given in a spirit of honesty, vulnerability, and generally going out on a revealing ledge. To recognize and acknowledge it as a bid for connection, understanding, and maybe some compassion.

What I’ve learned is that one must be really explicit about communicating that acknowledgement. We might be there physically, and we might even be listening and taking it in and accepting what is being said. But do we show that? How is the other person to know? It is not enough to remain silent. Words are necessary.

So I’ve come up with a script of sorts. Something to say when someone expresses something to me that is difficult to share.

”Thank you for trusting me with that.”

”Thank you for sharing that with me. I feel like I know you better.”

”I think i understand a little better where you’re coming from or why you’d feel that way.”

Or we could say what I feel it is we really wish to hear when we’re in that situation:

”I heard you, and I like you still.”

Or even,

”That makes sense to me and you are not a freak.”

There are probably a lot of reasons why we don’t want to share our vulnerable things. I put a search into google, asking it to draw from psychology today just because I find it interesting and highly readable and AI consolidated possibilities into a single list for me. It’s pretty good. Here it is, and I’ll put my own reasons in bold.

1. Fear of rejection. People may be afraid of being abandoned or rejected when they share their vulnerabilities. 

2. Fear of judgment. People may be concerned about being seen as weak or inadequate, or being misunderstood or judged.

3. Fear of loss of control. People may feel uncomfortable relinquishing some control over their emotions or situations

4. Fear of regret. People may worry about feeling regret or shame after being vulnerable. (aka vulnerability hangover)

5. Self-protection. People may believe that being vulnerable makes them more susceptible to being hurt or taken advantage of.

6. Cultural or social conditioning. Societal norms that prioritize strength or resilience over vulnerability can discourage people from expressing their emotions openly.

7. Fear of making things worse. People may be afraid that sharing their deeper emotions or thoughts will make matters worse.
   

I was raised in a culture of not sharing and learned to keep a tight lid on my internal stuff. But then I grew up and out of that culture and found myself in one where sharing was welcome and even necessary, where people had few readymade support systems and friendship was a survival skill. I met people who modeled it for me and taught me what true friendshipping looks like. They were so honest and open that I, in turn, felt invited to be open as well in an environment where I felt freedom and safety which resulted in true bonding and some of my best, closest friendships.

Because that felt so nice, it taught me that I want to do that for others as well. To be a place of safety and also shared openness. In other words, it goes both ways. To get close to someone, we must express a desire to know them and then open ourselves up to be known.

But it’s not always reciprocated. Nor can we control how they will hear or interpret what we have to say. Everyone comes with their own histories, traumas, frameworks, limitations, and general lens of understanding.

So sometimes when we say a hard thing, we might have this feeling like we want to add something like, “Does that make sense?” which could be translated to mean, “Do you think I’m a freak and do you still like me? Am I still ok to you?”

We are so afraid of what effect our confession/revelation/experience/idea will have on the other, afraid of losing them or scaring them off. So then we withhold, we edit, we hide, bury, deny.

But this is not connecting. I love talking to my friend because we’ve been able to go deeper with one another. If I stay on a surface level too long, it is not a satisfying friendship. We must grow, stretch, and develop within our relationships to keep them alive, and test (might insert “trust” here) the waters to see if we can go a bit deeper. This is my experience, anyway.

But it is very scary to reveal things about ourselves, especially if we’ve not been able to confront them ourselves. And even if we have, we may have real threats preventing us from taking the steps to share. Maybe we’ve tried in the past and the person could not receive it. Maybe they got upset, defensive, or deflected leading to a denial of our bid. Or maybe they just shut down, ignoring it, pretending it didn’t happen. It is very hard to hear hard things.

I’ve learned it takes much practice and is a very precarious, clumsy process. It can be exhausting, feel dangerous even, like throwing oneself out to the wolves of misunderstanding always lurking in high probability. Misunderstanding, judgment, rejection, and other things that are pretty excruciating.

Which is why it is my theory that we need to have some kind of “message received” response. A “Roger that” but perhaps with a few more words. Since we know how difficult it is to share something so close to us, maybe can have a ready thing to say so they don’t feel left out to the wolves they bravely and vulnerably subjected themselves to. A reminder to say I’m friend, not foe.

Sometimes we assume the other knows how we feel about them. We haven’t punched them out the door, so they should feel accepted and appreciated, right? We’re still physically next to them and haven’t spat in their face, so they should be able to infer that we still care about them, yes?

Somehow, it’s not enough. This is what I’m learning.

A listening ear is grand, but an ear can’t talk. Walkie-talkies are useless and completely un-fun if the other person is going to just sit there, quietly listening, leaving the other to be like, “Hello?? Anybody there?? Am I talking to the wind?”

We must say words. And first, we need to get good at detecting when someone is being vulnerable and not let it scare us away. Don’t dismiss or write them off. Instead, try to have compassion and stay curious. If you feel the threat of attack descend upon you, you might ask yourself whether it’s less about you and more about the truth of the thing the person is trying to say. You might put yourself in their shoes. Hmm, they are sharing something honest and deeply personal. That is hard to do. I can recall times I’ve done this and I know how it feels.

This, too, takes practice.

I recently sat in a class where someone made a comment that went against the cultural current of ideas being shared. It was a different point of view and it seemed to me to be a pretty personal and vulnerable thing to say. The person spoke up about painful experience they were intimately connected to, as an advocate on behalf of people they love. And I really appreciated it because I understood, on a personal level, the things they were saying. They spoke for their loved ones, but they were speaking for me too. And anytime I hear a mouthpiece that represents me, inadvertent or not, I feel the space open up a little more, a little more safe, and a feeling of, “You are not the only one. You are not a freak.” This is a gift more meaningful than I can say. But I attempt to anyway.

Texts are really nice. I use texts all the time. “Thanks for saying that” is the sweetest music to the ears of someone who just barfed up their own heart for the mixed crowd to handle or interpret how they will. Often it feels like it’s left dangling there in a cloud of “I’m not sure what to do with that.”

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Side note: Do you think that’s why throwing up is so embarrassing as a kid? Because you’re like, That came from ME—That was inside of me and it’s so gross, I’m so sorry.

Side story: Remember in Jurassic Park when Tim is stuck in the car that’s stuck in the tree after it falls off the ledge? Dr. Grant climbs up, finds him amazingly unhurt, and Tim confesses that he threw up. Dr. Grant first says that it’s ok. When Tim still seems unable to move, he reassures him again: “Tim, I won’t tell anyone you threw up. Just give me your hand.”

Thinking about this scene is weirdly making me tear up right now. I mean, it’s Jurassic Park, so that makes sense. But until now, I’ve never thought long enough about this scene.

Maybe this lesson from Dr. Grant stayed with me on a subconscious level, because one day when Julian was small, I was walking in the halls of the elementary school and passed a kid who started to throw up. I instinctively ran over to him, stood behind him (legs wide), and held him as we braced for the next wave. Then we went into the bathroom and did it again. It’s so traumatic to throw up. The next obvious step was reassuring him: “Throwing up at school is the worst. I’ve totally done it. It’s ok”.

Bless all the kids who puked at school. I see you.

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Back to the class. On this occasion, after the person made the comment, there was a pause. I was sitting far away, really feeling that silent, full-term pregnant pause, and all I could think to do was…applaud. To say,

“Hear hear!”
“Amen!”
“Your message has been received with me. I understand you. I appreciate and value what you just said.”

When I did, there was laughter. My theory? It broke the tension. People were really uncomfortable with that dangling heart and desperately wanted someone to take it.

Let’s practice this.

First, let’s remember how it feels to share. Think about when you threw up in the second grade all over the hall and had to shamefully walk away, leaving it there.

Then, let’s develop some really strong muscles for tolerating discomfort.

Finally, hone the radar for times someone has presented a tender piece of themselves, whether in a group setting or one-on-one on a mountain. And deliberately and explicitly let them know with our words—and maybe an applause?— that we appreciate, receive, and accept their courage, that we accept them. And make sure that they know it.

You know? Does that make sense? Do you copy?

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