I spent a third of my twenties traveling to and residing in all kinds of places. There was no sense of permanence, only a persistent belief that in the next place, I could finally settle. I moved my body through the world with an alarming level of indifference—it was as if these places were merely outfits I was trying on before a dinner party.

Whether I found myself in Oregon, Florida, Australia, or Hawaii, some harmless stranger would inevitably take a sip of their craft beer, turn to me, and ask, “So, like, where are you from?”

Sometimes I said Denver. Other times I said Upstate New York. If I was feeling cheeky, I said the last place I’d been, as in, the place I was coming from. If you heard all the different answers I gave to that simple question, you’d have serious doubts about my integrity.

But in my mind, there was no confusion about where I was from.

This person might be yammering about their own upbringing as a military kid or their teenage years in rural Poland and I’d be dreaming of the arborvitaes outside my childhood home, how they grew taller every year just like my siblings and me. I could hear the familiar shredding sound as I shucked summer corn on the porch with a pot between my feet. I felt the icy water of the creek turning my hands ghostly as I hunted for a crayfish at the silty bottom.

I never said the full truth because I didn’t want to explain all the questions that might follow: why my family lived in three different states, or why my father started a new family before leaving ours.

I also knew I didn’t owe anyone the full truth, especially not someone I’d just met. Our stories are gifts we share with people if and when we choose.

This past week, I shared part of that story I’d long been avoiding in The Huffington Post (you can read it here if you haven’t yet).

The result is that I’ve been wondering if withholding the truth all those years actually drove a wedge between me and the world I wanted to belong to.

What if putting your shame on display is actually the key to feeling less ashamed?

I told someone recently that I had a memoir out on submission about my family’s experience with foreclosure and my search for home in the aftermath.

Their response was, “Wow, what's it like to write something so personal?” 

It felt like they were asking, “Why would you do that to yourself?” 

I said that I hope to give a voice to people who’ve gone through similar experiences. That I want to shed light on the damage of family secrets and shame. That I aspire to bring awareness to the struggles of those people, and change the stigma around housing insecurity.

But I also doubted if any of those impacts would come to fruition. What if this was simply hard, and had no benefit? Why was I doing this to myself? After all, I’d never know if my writing really helped others if I never heard from anybody about it.

The good news is, I heard.

I heard from strangers, acquaintances, and people I haven’t talked to in years. I heard about foreclosures, bankruptcy, and sheriffs knocking on doors. I heard about family members taking people in, generational secrets, and relationships irreversibly shattered. 

Everyone’s story was unique, but the common thread was that people felt comfortable opening up to me because I’d opened up in such a big way.

The idea that vulnerability begets connection isn’t mine, nor is it new (that's all thanks to Brené).

However, sharing such a personal piece of writing reminded me how hard vulnerability can be.

Which got me wondering: Do we all have a part of ourselves that we feel like we need to hide, even from our family and in long-term relationships and friendships?

It makes me sad to think that this could be true, those hidden selves gathering more shame the longer they stay in secret. Because this is exactly what keeps us disconnected. And our longing for emotional intimacy is so incredibly primal, so simple at its core: We just really need one another.

I’m working on being more vulnerable not just in this “big publication” kind of way, but in my personal relationships, too. Talking to someone else about the hard stuff helps us see ourselves from the outside—all our imperfection and generosity and uniqueness on display. We would never want that person to feel as ashamed as they’ve been feeling, which helps us see that we should’ve been a little easier on ourselves from the start. 

All this to say, here’s what I learned this week: Casting a light on our secrets can, even in the smallest way, set us free.