Alice, the Door, and the Tears We Hide

It’s funny how I can be so good at listening to others talk about their pain. I can sit with them in it—feel the heartache, sort through the crumbs left behind after a loss, wade through the mess of a breakup or betrayal. I know how to gather broken thoughts, whispered from the depths of grief, and stitch them together into something meaningful. A tribute. A memory. A story that honors what was lost.

But when it comes to my own pain? The words dry up. Or worse—they start to feel stale if I say them more than once.

Now, I can tell my husband anything, a hundred times over, and it never feels like too much. I’m so grateful to have my person—someone who hears me, really hears me. But outside of him and a few token friends (you know who you are), I tend to go quiet.

Well, I tend to retreat until something small tips the scale, and whoever is in my closest proximity gets an earful that they were not quite expecting.

Maybe it’s because, growing up, I was often called sensitive. Dramatic. An exaggerator. (Which—sure, maybe I was. But it also made me one heck of a storyteller, so I’m not too mad about it.)

Still, those labels stuck. And now, when something really hurts—when I’m grieving or overwhelmed—I keep it tucked behind this tiny, locked door. Think: Alice in Wonderland. That ridiculous, miniature door she can’t quite fit through. Except I’m Alice, drowning in my own tears, while the door screams for me to just open it already.

But I don’t always want feedback. I don’t want advice or solutions or silver linings until I am ready. Sometimes I’m not ready to be told what I should do, or how to think, or why it’ll all be okay. I can hand out platitudes all day long—paired with fries and a chocolate shake—but receiving them? That’s a different story.

It’s not the talking that wears me out. It’s the fear. The fear of being judged, misunderstood, or replaying my words later and wishing I’d said something else. Or said nothing at all.

Does anyone else feel that way? Like you’re so tangled up in your own mind that you just… can’t?

Adulthood hasn’t exactly come easy for my husband and me. We’ve been learning as we go, and let’s just say the lessons haven’t always been gentle. One day, I’ll probably write more about all of it. But for now, just know: it’s been hard. Beautiful, too. But hard.

There was a time—not long ago—when we had to call and ask for a payment arrangement. The woman on the phone asked, “When did your hardship begin?” And I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I told her, “You don’t have enough time in your day for that answer.”

And yet, we told her anyway. We shared parts of our story we hadn’t told anyone outside our home. And somehow, after hanging up, I felt lighter. Clearer. Like maybe—just maybe—we were going to be okay. All because I cracked the door open, just a little. With a stranger I’ll never meet in person.

So I guess this is what I want to say:

If you’re drowning in your own tears, if your sorrow or grief feels too big to name—maybe try opening the door. Just a little. Even if it’s with someone unexpected. Even if it’s just to say: “It’s been hard.”

You don’t have to throw the door wide open. But letting a little light in? That’s where healing starts.