“For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder.”

– Lennon/McCartney

This line from the Beatles’ “Hey Jude” makes me misty every time, especially when I sing it out loud. I cry, I think, because I recognize the familiar foolery it describes. The temptation to disconnect when it all gets to be too much. Trying — pretending — to be “cool” instead of revealing my vulnerable heart. And then finding myself alone with the coldness I’ve created, the loss of intimacy.

I don’t hide my hurt nearly as much as I used to.  You wouldn’t be wrong to point out that I broadcast my feelings week after week.  That’s true. And for the most part these days I’m a fairly open book — with the cracked spine and dog-eared, finger-smudged pages to prove it.  

But I still catch myself hiding from time to time:

• Downplaying disappointments so as not to appear whiny or needy. I mean, obviously there are more important things to care about than my petty concerns, my “first-world problems.”

• Trying to talk myself out of my upsets, big and small, as quickly as possible. To get over it. Sometimes I’ll rush to reframe painful feelings as “valuable lessons” in hope that this will make me seem evolved, enlightened, and wise rather than broken and sad.

• Keeping my most precious wishes to myself so I won’t be as embarrassed if things don’t work out.

All of this does make the world seem a little colder. It makes the world seem a place in which it’s dangerous to display anything but confidence and then victory — “never let ‘em see you sweat,” and never let them see you cry.

I’m not necessarily advocating for the other extreme — luxuriating in misery, habitually stuck in it. Peppy self-talk definitely has its place. But all the affirmations and rationalizations and conceptualized happiness in the world aren’t all that great if they mean disallowing our genuine sensitivity.

I don’t want to be thick-skinned and tough when we all really need a little more tenderness.

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I’ve had a couple of disappointments lately.

(I just started to write: “They were nothing earth-shattering, no biggies.” And then I realized that that would be the very same sort of knee-jerk coverup I was just writing about, minimizing my own hurt feelings. Jeez Louise! Let me try again…)

I’ve had a couple of disappointments lately that have done quite a number on me. My confidence, faith, and joy got sort of rattled.

What I’m surprised to notice about this is that I’m experiencing not just sadness, but also shame. I’m feeling like a failure.

I find myself regretting that I was such a blabbermouth about my hopes.

Specifically it’s been about the fact that I told everyone — EVERYONE — that I had a good shot at being cast in leading roles in not one, but two, different musicals. And then I didn’t get the parts, dammit. What’s worse is that, because I’ve talked about it nonstop for two months, not only do I feel let-down, now, I also feel like I’ve let everyone else down. I think that this is compounded by and heaped on top of my insistent optimism and then defeat in November’s election. At the end of a long year of difficulty and loss. The cumulative effect is that I am feeling broken and dispirited and ashamed.

I was unpacking these feelings with Travis, telling him that I probably should’ve kept it all to myself until I had something good to report. He responded with what sounded to me like a paraphrase of “Hey Jude,” asking if I truly thought that not expressing my optimism and enthusiasm would’ve been better for me or for anyone. Would playing it cool make the world feel warmer? Would keeping my hopes secret — not getting my own or anyone’s hopes up — make life brighter?

I had to admit that, no, it wouldn’t. But I don’t much like the alternative of public humiliation, either.

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Anyway… I’m still working through it. I’m not sure what the answer is, if there is an answer.

It might simply be making peace with the fact that living out loud, with our hearts on our sleeves, is just always going to be a riskier way of being. Not just making peace with that, but actually choosing it because I believe it to be a good thing. A necessary thing.

Caring inevitably means risking the possibility of disappointment. Talking about what matters to us always means exposing ourselves to the possibility that others may witness our disappointment, watch us lose, see us discouraged.

Definitely, I don’t believe that the remedy is to not care or to not share.  At least not for me.  I’m pretty sure that we need more caring, not less.  We need more folks sharing their dreams and bold visions, not fewer.  More people pressing on through obstacles, going for it no matter the odds, facing difficulties and setbacks and opposition and doubt with courage and determination.

Here’s the thing, though: when things don’t work out, we have to try not to let our exposure curdle into shame and self-recrimination.

Maybe that’s a matter of trust. Trusting each other enough to let ourselves be imperfect. Trusting each other enough to keep trying even when we might fail, and let others watch us doing it. Standing naked and hopeful before each other, even in discouragement and doubt. Daring to love and be loved, even though we’ve been hurt before.

This is friendship, right? Honest, intimate, sometimes-messy friendship. And it may be the thing I treasure most about our creative spiritual community.

I can’t wait to be with you this Sunday, January 12, 10:00am at q-Staff Theatre. I’m excited to welcome our special musical guest, Chris Dracup. XO, Drew

©2025 Drew Groves