A few months ago I read a heartbreaking and inspiring story about a local woman who had been diagnosed with ALS. I knew of Sara Cooper, but I didn’t know Sara Cooper. Still, in reading her words, I immediately felt a connection to her. This fierce soul was someone I needed to actually know and so I sent her a message on Facebook.
Over the next few weeks we exchanged messages, likes and comments on social media. But I wanted to sit with her. Her quick wit and commanding presence at a recent awards event captivated me. I didn’t just want to know of her. I wanted to be her friend. I wanted to laugh with her in person, not just in emojis. But I was afraid. What if she thought I was some kind of weirdo with a morbid curiosity about a person who was terminally ill? What if I wasn’t nearly as funny as she was? What if I bored her? What if we sat in an odd silence when we met and it was uncomfortable?
And then, I thought about my daughters. At 11 years old they seem to always just dive into situations and relationships with a confidence I cannot imagine possessing. They are kind and welcoming and sure that they are worth the time and attention of pretty much everyone. They don’t cower in corners or wait for people to say hello or ask them to join in on a game. They just do it. Or they start their own game and kindly welcome others into their circle.
But, me? Nope. I’m a lurker. I’ll watch people at networking events and think, “they look like they’re having fun. I wonder what they’re talking about.” But I won’t join them. And somehow I can speak to a crowd of 500 people and not be intimated in the least. I know what I want to say and I know it matters. I have a purpose up there and I feel funny and justified and right where I belong. Why? Probably because I get to get off that stage and walk immediately to people I already know so they can give me a pat on the back and we can go about our day. I don’t have to actually walk up to a person I don’t know and introduce myself. I don’t have to enter a group of already connected people (often women) and wonder if they will like me or hate me or think my dress is ugly. I don’t have to be vulnerable.
And I have a feeling I’m not the only one. In fact, I know I’m not.
I finally mustered the courage to ask Sara if she would like to get together in person so I could interview her for a blog I wanted to write about her incredible fight with ALS. She happily agreed and we set up a date. When I arrived I was still super nervous, sure that she wasn’t going to find me nearly as interesting as I found her. But the conversation flowed so effortlessly and beautifully that our time was up before we could even get to all my questions. So we decided, we’ll do this again.
And there’s more. Sara told me that she had been following me and my work for years; watching me speak and then “work a room” and she wanted to introduce herself and get to know me too but she worried, “Why would she want to talk to me? She’s been on TV.”
So there we were, two successful, cool, funny women who really wanted to know each other; afraid that that one would think the other was not enough. And now, here we are, realizing that it shouldn’t take a terminal disease to make this happen.
I’ve decided now that next time I want to get to know someone, I’m going to just go for it. Chances are they are just as worried and awkward as me. And chances also are that we’re both going to end up laughing.
I hope you’ll give it a try too.
If you like my writing, email me anytime at daniellegletow@gmail.com.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash