More kindness = fewer closets

We're all afraid to be ourselves and that's bogus.

We’re all hiding in our own little closets, afraid to admit that we’d like to be ourselves.

We’re fed pumpkin spice routines when we crave ghost pepper adventures. We’re taught to be agreeable with everyone but ourselves, and it’s eating us alive. We’re told be ourselves, but NOT LIKE THAT, and so we learn to hide. No matter how well we behave, we never get any time off to relax.

And oftentimes, being just a little bit louder or sillier or braver or stronger or thoughtful or hopeful or sparkly or fragile is enough to get you shunned and exiled. And that’s just mean.

Unless you’re a sadistic cannibal or some sort of ghoul who enjoys forcing people to suffer from preventable deaths while you’re out yachting and shooting whales in the face with cannons—you’re just a human being with completely understandable feelings.

Here are ten ways to dilute the acidic nature of your repressed truths.

Reindeer aren’t supposed to have red noses.

Nobody knows anybody else’s entire constellation of truths.
You’re not weird; you’re just in an unforgiving context.
We’re herded into singular lanes when we really would prefer to be traveling different roads entirely. We all enjoy our own combinations of non-standardized feelings and inclinations, and knowing everybody else is as multi-dimensional as we are is the kindest way to exist.

You can’t play in the reindeer games, you monster.

Who even suspects the secret identity that we ruminate upon?
You’re not going to get found out, because nobody is investigating what they’ve never even thought about.
The things that feel foundational about our own selves—they’re not just underestimated by other people, most of the time, they’re not even considered at all. Everybody is infinitely and secretly complex, and we shouldn’t feel isolated for this universal experience.

You can’t just walk around in public like that. Go back in your cave, Rudolf.

Tropes are disguises.
You’re only one true friend away from taking your costume off and being your entire self.
We hide our honest treasures in the pockets of the stereotypes we put on before we leave the house. We’re all passing as normal as best we can unless we’re either incredibly brave or we know that we’re loved unconditionally.   

I don’t care that you can’t breathe. Keep the tar on your nose.

Everybody keeps a facet of themselves closeted.
You’re not faking; you’re just protecting yourself—just like everybody else.
We all contain multitudes. But we don’t let all of them out in public. We all freak out internally instead of daring to disturb the general public.

Elves aren’t dentists, you little sadistic freak.

Every relationship is a context.
You’re not the wrong kind of person; you’re just not always in the right kind of places for you.
We code-switch between work and home, friends and family, city and countryside, and sometimes we even speak to ourselves as if we are strangers to the face we see in the mirror.  

The Island of Misfit Toys is the hottest club at the North Pole.

Kindness dissolves wariness. And trust allows for knowing.
You’re not the only one like yourself; you’re just the only one you’ve met SO FAR.
What we are ashamed to bring to light is a feature we share with millions of other people, most of the time. It’s our combinations of attributes that makes us who we are, not any individual detail.

Oh, so you mean EVERYBODY is a misfit? Nice.

What’s the most obvious is considered the most ordinary.
You’re not sinister; you’re just left-handed.
And what’s most hidden is what we think of as freaky or strange or shameful—but only because so few people dare to share it. If we were all more public we’d be all less ashamed.   

Well, Clarice LIKES it. Love is love.

Most deviance is actually quite valuable.
You’re not wrong; you’re just not typical.
There are too many contexts and too many details and too few places where we feel safe enough to be entirely ourselves. But if we can stretch the idea of possible, we stretch the potential of everyone.

We need SO MANY more skilled sleigh-guides.

To be honest with yourself is to be a disappointment to someone else.
You’re not a terrible person; you’re just living under terrible rules.
You can’t please everybody all the time but that doesn’t mean we don’t try. Besides, we know that the people in charge decide what kind of people get canonized and which ones get burned at the stake. Why risk being considered some kind of witch?

The more confining the traditions are, the longer the naughty list is.

If the cultural is unforgiving of differences, doesn’t take much to be considered a monster.
You’re not a monster; you’re being judged by monsters.
As standards of acceptability shift, so does the population of freaks. The more the merrier, healthier, and stronger.