This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

The “too-muchness” of me was pointed out when I was very young. Like most girls, I was taught how to reflect wholesome goodness for others to praise my parents for. When you are raised in a house with your very first bullies, you learn quickly when taking up too much space, having too much music in your soul, having too much joy is annoying to those around you. You are reminded again and again, “Ok, that’s enough now.” This groomed me to be hyper-aware of how I entered a room, how to participate in the company of others, and to constantly shape-shift to make everyone as comfortable as possible. At the same time that I was learning about “This Little Light of Mine,” the messaging was clear: your light is better under a bushel if (but most undoubtedly when) others tell you it is too bright. Oh, and the Sunday School gem “Joy, Joy Joy. Jesus, Others and You,” was a song that taught me to put Jesus and others before myself, my needs, my ideas and my wants. That’s what good Christians do.

I am a naturally light and happy person. Everyday is a good day, and I can separate the really shitty hours, minutes or situations away from the day in and of itself. I am proud of this ability and work hard to help my sons see tough moments as just that, moments. I live in gratitude and the delusional reassurance that tomorrow is fresh. “His mercies are new every morning.”

I also have a history of battling crippling depression, most acutely in postpartum, and self-loathing minimalization of what I contribute to the world. This diametrically opposed personality has been a battle, and there are those who prefer one version of me over others. The ones that like my joy and lightness relish my company in social situations, in caregiving, in party planning, and in conflict management. Those who need to be needed find their purpose fulfilled when I am a numb, catatonic shell of myself who needs to be carefully handled until the ship is righted. If there is an in-between stage of my happiness, they are fast retreating puffs of air.

But it is not easy to be a person full of joy when the world tells you you are too much. It is nearly impossible for me to remember that “the opinions of other are none of your business,” because there has been zero evidence that this is true for my life. Whether I want to know them or not, these opinions are evident in their feedback and treatment.

In our current political climate, I have found myself to be an unlikely participant with a social media megaphone screaming for justice. For the equal treatment and inclusive love that I was raised to believe that Jesus taught, lived by, and demanded of his followers. That no person should be made to feel fear or quieted by their government or their neighbors, and especially not Christians. This week, my Christian, conservative father-in-law brought up my social media posts and declared that they were causing family disruption. We moved to Germany two months ago, and our once-close relationship and bi-monthly visits have come down to video chats and text messages. In the next sentence, he told me he unfollowed me months ago. Where he gets his information is not a mystery, but still, I am unbothered. Or I try to be. He told me, “That’s enough, Shellie. Just maybe stop it,” while pumping his hands, palm-side down, as if that would settle the issue.

What struck me at first was my initial nervous response: to comply. The message was that I was making others <read: him and other MAGA accomplices> uncomfortable, which was not my role. I was to be pleasing. I was to be light and cheerful. I was to be compliant and self-sacrificing. There must have been a glitch in my programming and he was going to correct it. “Why do you need to be so angry?” he labeled me. “Why not focus on the good stuff?” he asserted, convincing me to fall back in line with what he knows me to be.

When I tried to convey that my social media is for me and not for him, he paused momentarily and then simply repeated himself. I told him that I trusted that he knew himself and was doing what was best for him, and if he didn’t want to see my social media, that was alright. “You don’t care?” was his best reply. And I repeated, “My social media is for me. If it isn’t for you, that’s ok and I trust you to make that choice.” The little girl inside me felt soothed, protected, and defended.

Afterwards, the rage set in: the utter audacity, the privilege, the right he felt he had to tell me to settle down on my own social media page. I understand that at almost 82, he is the product of his generation, but it is never too late to do better. When you know better, you can do better. Unless you refuse to know better. Then you will likely find loneliness at the end of your bigoted dock, waiting for the end of life.

This too-muchness has caused me to chase relationships that reinforced my codependency, my self-loathing, and my negative self-talk. I catered to others’ needs to the extreme, and it kept me in a marriage for over a decade, settling for crumbs of affection and calling it marital love. Good enough was good enough. Except when it came to how I viewed myself through the lens of others. I was not good enough, unless I was pleasing. Delightful. Helpful. A Good Girl. As long as my light was bright enough to keep them warm and distracted, but not so much so that it made them small and ashamed of their own shadows. I was promiscuous in my attention to others and indiscriminate when placing their needs before my own. No application needed, no qualifications to apply: just show up and tell me who I am supposed to be to make you feel comfortable in this space. No sacrifice is too much. Have it all! I am here to serve!

In my late 30s, with the right therapist, backed by my fantastic husband & empathetic friends, I started to realize that no amount of goodness or usefulness will get awful people to treat me better. I am still disposable, and the wrong people will always prove that, regardless of how well I dim my light to make them comfortable. But my previous argument was sound and had carried me through decades of relationships: “If this is how they treat me when I am good, when I am delightful and accommodating, there is no telling how they will treat me if I stop. If I stand up for myself. If I demand better.”

I can now see that for what is was: a bushel of my own making. The programming had remained, running in the background, always present. I hid my light for the comfort of others, and for self-preservation. The unknown was far worse than the pain of covering up my too-muchness.

I would love to say that at 41, I am better. All better. I am better than I was, but I saw hairline fractures spiderweb in my resolve after the video chat with my father-in-law. It bled into my week and whispered nasty nothings in my sleep. But that is what healing is. 

It is starting on a new path, removing the pebbles and sand that get into your shoe along the way. The logs you have to jump over or creeks you wade through to get to the better place. Nothing is worse than this. No amount of painful therapy is worse than staying here. I just do the “Next Right Thing,” and remember that I am enough and my too-muchness is not something I have to take with me in my backpack. It doesn’t have to exist anymore. I don’t have to hand down that programming to my kids or let it sneak into my marriage. I can trust that others will be in my life or won’t, and that their decision has nothing to do with my worthiness. Some days, that is easier to type than believe. So that is why I write it down, to remind myself.

Good enough, is good enough. And I am good enough to take up space.

Won’t let Satan blow it out, I’m gonna let it shine

Won’t let Satan blow it out, I’m gonna let it shine

Won’t let Satan blow it out, I’m gonna let it shine

Let it shine, let it shine. let it shine.