The Shell Game
Do you remember the very first Christmas when Santa Claus brought you something?
For me, Christmas is a vast collection of memories. Yet those earliest ones, before I was six or so, also carried the first of many lies I would hear from my parents and the world around me.
Lies.
I hesitate to use such a sharp word, but we're talking about truth and lies, so let's leave this one unwrapped.
The Santa Clause story was almost certainly intended to be harmless, even magical. Still, there's something worth exploring about how casually we pass our truths from one generation to the next.
The power of our voice becomes suspect the moment we're caught in a lie. Yet how many "truths" are living inside each of our heads right now simply because, somewhere along the way, we agreed they were true?
Once upon a time, people believed the Earth was flat. What was once accepted by nearly everyone has, through evidence, become a belief held by relatively few. There are still those who argue otherwise, and while I may disagree, who am I to judge how another person chooses to understand their world? They can still live peaceful, meaningful lives, right?
Perhaps our greater responsibility is simply this:
Speak the most educated truth we currently have while remaining willing to change when sufficient evidence arrives.
After all, the truth doesn't need our belief to exist.
Those little lies, in retrospect, survive only because we keep believing them.
Then there are our personal truths—the stories we've gathered through experience that shape the way we interpret almost everything we see.
And there's where things get interesting.
Because those interpretations don't stay inside us.
We carry them into every conversation, every relationship, and every judgment we make. The shadows we cast onto others often reflect just as much about us as they do about the person standing in front of us.
We speak what we believe until experience teaches us otherwise. As that process unfolds throughout our lives, it's worth asking:
How much weight do our words carry—not only for those who hear them, but for ourselves?
Our responses often reveal more about us than they do about the person we're responding to. In many ways, we're showing others what we currently believe about ourselves through this very process.
This one took me a while to grasp.
It's so easy to say.
It even makes sense.
Yet... WTF?
Why does everything keep pointing back to me?
I can see it so easily in everyone else.
And, of course, none of that could ever have been me.
Right?
Oh wait...
Yeah.
I did that too.
Oh...
That too.
And that one.
Let's face it.
Throwing rocks at others only shatters our own reflection.
And those rocks?
They're our chosen words.
Think about the words of a parent, a teacher, a boss, or even a president. Their words influence our emotions, shape our perceptions, and sometimes alter the course of our lives.
The question isn't whether words have power.
It's how much power we're willing to give them.
And perhaps an even better question is this:
What do our reactions reveal about us?
How do those reactions shape our perception? Is it the instant we think we've heard something, noticed something, or assumed something, allowing only fragments of information to determine our disposition?
At what point does an unknown become a story I've simply finished writing for myself?
After all, I've experienced enough to convince myself I probably already know the ending.
Sometimes it even feels easier than asking the questions that would fill in the blanks.
Of course, context matters though.
If a tiger is charging toward me, I hope I don't stop to strike up a dialogue.
But if my neighbor asks me to pick up "four or five eggs," I'd rather ask,
"Did you mean forty-five... or four or five?"
Ya see, this one simple question can save us from constructing an entire reality around something we never actually understood.
These unfilled blanks...
These rocks laced with aggression...
And yes...
These truth-resistant lies too...
They all have something in common.
Each begins with an agreement we've made somewhere along the way. Each one worth its weight till it isn’t though.
If left unattended, those agreements become a reliable recipe for forgetting who we are. Santa didn’t bring the eggs after all.
But who are we, really?
This authentic self so many people speak of.
Close your eyes.
Now say hello to yourself using only your inside voice.
Keep saying it.
Louder.
Louder still...
Until you're practically shouting—
HELLO!
This is you.
Whenever you notice yourself drifting, this is home.
Not because you've become perfect.
Because you've stopped trying to become someone else.
You're simply present.
Thriving without needing to do so at anyone else's expense.
Think of a baseball pitcher throwing a perfect game.
Or the sweetest woman in town quietly knitting blankets for everyone she knows.
If we could interview either of them in those moments, I doubt we'd find their minds wandering to yesterday's argument, tomorrow's errands, or whether they remembered to pick up the eggs for the neighbor.
They weren't busy becoming themselves.
They already were.
That's the gift of presence.
For a little while, there is no performance to maintain.
No assumptions to defend.
No rocks to throw.
No blanks to fill in.
There is only this moment.
See how fun this is?
We started with words.
Wandered through assumptions.
Stumbled over a few rocks.
Collected some shells along the way.
And somehow found ourselves back home.
Now imagine meeting the world from that place.
Question the hell out of it.
Most ducks have feathers and quack.
We've heard it enough times that we rarely question it.
A politician's motives?
Those are often assumed long before they're understood.
A mother cow nudging her calf...
That isn't something we're told.
We feel it.
A child leaving milk and cookies for Santa.
That's grace.
Not because Santa needs the cookies, but because the child is practicing generosity before expecting anything in return.
Every experience leaves something behind.
Another layer.
Another shell.
Some fit for a while.
Others become so tight that we mistake discomfort for who we are.
Are we even fully alive when we're still trying to squeeze ourselves into shells we've already outgrown?
You'll know the answer the moment you take those tight shoes off.
Have you ever met someone and wondered whether they were walking through life in shoes two sizes too small?
Then you notice another group walking barefoot, completely comfortable in their own skin.
Well...
Maybe not the folks living way up north.
Their boots look ridiculously comfortable.
Have you noticed the one constant theme quietly following you through these words and phrases?
As you've been reading, you've probably resisted at least one thing I've written. Maybe you even called it a lie.
Yet here you are, like me.
Still reading.
Still gathering just a little more information before settling on your conclusion.
Question everything. Listen completely. Then decide, with intention, which stories deserve your agreement.
Now we're standing together in wonderfully uncharted territory. I'm writing these words almost as quickly as they're arriving, and perhaps you're discovering them the very same way.
As we continue deeper—without ever feeling out of breath—we begin to notice something.
A quiet practice of checking in with ourselves.
Not to shut out the world...
But to meet it without immediately surrendering to it.
Suddenly...
The external noise has competition now.
Close your eyes.
Say hello.
No...
Inside, silly.
Home is Hello.
Welcome home.
What does this feel like to you right now?
Better yet...
What did it feel like this morning?
Or while reading these words?
Maybe something simply began to feel...
Right.
We've explored words, assumptions, rocks, shoes, and shells.
They're all human experiences.
They're all part of growing into the many versions of ourselves life invites us to become.
And here's the beautiful part.
Whenever those shoes begin to feel tight again, maybe that's not life punishing us.
Maybe it's our own body gently whispering...
You've outgrown another shell.
A loaf of bread rises from the inside out.
But only when the conditions allow it.
We're not much different.
We expand from the inside first.
The environment matters.
But so does our willingness to notice when we've stopped growing.
Cough...
Cough...
Tight shoes.
Hello.
Now where are we?
Oh yeah...
Home.
Close your eyes as you read this next part.
Okay...
Maybe peek a little.
We're about to go on a journey.
Where did Hello originate?
And who heard it?
Let's have a seat and look straight up.
Imagine being able to see thirty thousand feet into the sky.
That's really not so difficult.
Many thunderstorms climb to that height.
Now imagine the deepest part of the ocean.
We're sitting together at the bottom of it.
This...
This is where Hello comes from.
Can you feel it?
If not, just pause for a moment.
Say hello.
Remind yourself that everything beyond Hello is happening at the surface.
We're sitting here at home.
A hurricane comes through...
Then it leaves.
At this depth, how much of that storm can we really feel?
Now let's call that hurricane what it really is.
A divorce.
A painful one.
Two hurting people.
Two very happy lawyers.
How is that possible?
I'm all the way down here at the bottom, yet the storm above is creating so much grief.
The storm is real.
But it isn't the whole ocean.
How did it become so?
Seriously.
Yes, divorce is serious.
But how did this storm come to carry so much emotional weight?
Writings like these sometimes deserve long pauses.
If you take a week—or even two—and simply sit with what we've explored so far, I'll completely understand.
It took me far longer than that to gather these thoughts into words.
Yet somehow...
Right now...
They're simply flowing.
So...
The divorce.
Somewhere along the way, relationships began carrying more and more weight.
What changed?
Or perhaps...
What never changed?
I ask that gently because I'm writing this for myself as much as anyone else.
I know for certain I've allowed past relationships to haunt me for years after they ended.
Now where are they?
They're still there.
Yet they're way over there...
Riding their own waves in this vast ocean.
For all the discomfort, I'm reminded to take off these tight shoes and give this shell room to expand.
The shoes are easy.
How many pairs have you owned?
The shell...
Well...
That's another journey.
Open those eyes.
No...
Feel this through your eyes.
There is an egg.
An ocean egg.
Just one vast shell.
It surrounds you completely.
Transparent.
Semipermeable.
It stretches above your head, beneath your feet, and in every direction around you.
Can you see it?
Good.
Now imagine a fluid-like medium flowing between you and the inner surface of that shell.
This is where all your experiences live.
Every one of them.
From childhood...
To just now.
I mean...
Now.
Oh...
You get it.
As of now, let me ask you something.
How many senses do you know of?
Let's keep it simple.
Hearing.
Sight.
Smell.
Touch.
Taste.
These are the instruments through which we experience the world outside our shell.
For example...
I love the smell of fresh bread.
Whenever it finds me, it's as though an entire collection of memories rises to greet it.
How many times have I smelled that scent?
How many kitchens?
How many mornings?
How many people?
One aroma...
Thousands of moments.
If only life handed us just good smells all the time.
Don't look now...
Here comes another one.
How far away can you see?
Think about that for a moment.
Now think about how many things you've seen that instantly reminded you of something from your past.
Something beautiful.
Something painful.
Maybe both.
My ex drove a black Civic.
Did you know that, for a while, it felt like it was the only car on the road?
Of course it wasn't.
Nothing about the roads had changed.
What changed...
Was me.
Somewhere within my shell, an agreement had quietly formed.
"Black Civic."
"Heartache."
And suddenly my attention began collecting evidence to support it.
One black Civic became ten.
Then fifty.
Then they seemed to be everywhere.
The world hadn't changed.
My awareness had.
The same thing happens with songs.
Scents.
Certain restaurants.
A street corner.
A season.
A single word.
Somehow they slip through that semipermeable shell and settle into the ocean within us.
Not because the experiences themselves are still happening...
But because, somewhere along the way, they became part of what we carry.
This is truly fascinating to me.
Our senses aren't merely gathering information.
They're constantly introducing new experiences into this ocean we've been quietly building our entire lives.
Some drift away almost immediately.
Others linger.
A few become part of the very shell we mistake for ourselves.
Until one day...
The shell becomes so familiar...
We forget we're the one observing it.
Maybe that's why taking off the tight shoes feels so freeing.
The shoes never were us.
The shell isn't us either.
It's simply where we've been keeping the story.
What is your story?
You've heard some of mine.
Now it's time to pick this up just a little more.
The idea of walking around inside this shell, surrounded by an ocean of emotions, can feel like a lot to wrap our heads around.
So let's bring this shell home.
Remember how to get there?
Hello...
This shell fits more like an Eskimo's moccasin than a suit of armor.
Comfortable when it fits.
Miserable when it doesn't.
And unlike those moccasins, this shell isn't wrapped around our feet.
It's nestled quietly between our ears.
Our nervous system is an incredible network of information flowing in every direction—constantly gathering, interpreting, storing, and responding to the world within and around us.
In some ways, I like to imagine it alongside the incredible networks we've built to exchange information with one another.
We went from switchboard operators manually connecting calls...
...to fiber optics...
...to high-powered lasers transmitting information at nearly the speed of light.
Our networks keep changing.
Keep adapting.
Keep finding more efficient ways to move information.
Why wouldn't we?
Growth isn't optional.
It's essential.
The tight-shoes effect doesn't happen all at once.
Long before circulation is cut off, our body has already begun whispering that something no longer fits.
The same can be true of the stories we carry.
Sometimes the discomfort we're feeling isn't because something is wrong.
Sometimes...
We've simply outgrown another shell.
We've talked about tight shoes and how those moccasins must feel.
Now let's talk about a tight shell.
A tight shell is one that's grown rigid around truth-resistant lies.
The Santa Claus-worthy letdowns we've been talking about.
Moments of feeling abandoned.
Rejected.
Unworthy.
Unseen.
Painful experiences can quietly become agreements about who we are.
But an experience is still an experience.
It doesn't have to become an identity.
These painful moments are often where truth-resistant lies are born.
"I wasn't enough."
"I'll always be alone."
"No one stays."
They may have felt true.
That doesn't make them true.
When we take the time to inspect our own patterns and responses, it's often these places of pain that reveal where some repair may be needed.
Sometimes a small adjustment is enough.
Other times...
The entire pattern deserves an overhaul.
It's easy to say,
"It's time to hold my own."
Saying it has never been the difficult part.
Living it...
That's where patience enters the conversation.
That's where repetition matters.
One choice.
One response.
One moment of awareness at a time.
Now return to the ocean.
Feel its vastness.
Its depth.
Its impossible capacity.
There is more than enough room for every version of you that has ever existed.
More than enough room for every lesson.
Every disappointment.
Every repair.
Every new beginning.
Knowing that Hello is home, allow yourself to simply rest there for a moment.
Not trying to fix anything.
Not trying to become anyone.
Just noticing...
There has always been enough room for you.
How does this feel right now?
Are you powering through these words just to prove you can?
Or are you treating them like something meant to be enjoyed in slow sips?
Not because they're difficult.
Because sometimes an idea deserves a little room to settle.
Perhaps you've noticed a bridge or two that you never saw before.
Or wait...
Maybe you have.
Maybe you've crossed them many times.
So why does it feel different now?
Why am I finally getting this?
That's actually the perfect question.
Maybe the answer isn't that you've discovered something new.
Maybe you've simply become ready to hear something you've known all along.
If that's the case...
Say thank you.
Not because someone else handed you the answer.
Because you finally heard yourself.
Not an old Saint Nick response.
Not an "I said so."
Just...
Hello.
So...
Why are you here?
That's my next question.
Is life here to teach us all the different ways we can suffer?
Or is it inviting us to develop the tools that soften suffering whenever it arrives?
Think about the Northern Lights.
They're breathtakingly beautiful.
Yet what looks peaceful from down here is being created by some pretty intense forces above us.
Perspective matters.
Beauty and danger sometimes occupy the very same space.
How many people have you met whose struggles were written all over their faces?
Now...
How many people quietly witnessed yours?
Can you feel the push and the pull?
We're all in this together...
Yet each of us walks a path no one else can completely experience.
Could my journey ever become a perfect repair manual for yours?
Possibly not.
But perhaps that's never been the point.
Maybe all I can truly offer is my story.
Its scars.
Its beginning.
Its "born on" date.
Sometimes that's enough.
Not because it fixes someone.
Because it reminds them they're not the first person to feel what they're feeling.
Healing has a funny way of arriving.
Sometimes it comes from a lifelong friend.
Sometimes from a photograph.
Sometimes from a stranger's conversation you accidentally overheard while waiting in line for coffee.
The source almost doesn't matter.
What matters...
Is now.
Now I feel something.
Now I notice it.
Now I can finally ask,
"What is its name?"
There's something beautiful about naming what we've been carrying.
It transforms an unnamed burden into something we can finally begin to understand.
Which is how much I love making new friends.
The ones I meet out in the world...
And the ones I discover within myself.
It's not a destination.
Far from it.
It's a timeless, ongoing experience of Hello bringing us home...
...and Now becoming the doorway to the next journey.
The next conversation.
The next lesson.
The next shell.
Isn't it funny how easily we allow something that just happened...
Or something that hasn't even happened yet...
To steal this moment?
Completely ridiculous, huh?
I stand guilty.
In fact...
I probably just did.
And I can't wait to catch myself doing it again.
Not because I enjoy suffering.
Because I know difficult moments will always arrive.
Life has never promised otherwise.
What it does offer is something far more useful.
Another opportunity to meet the moment differently.
Each time we return home...
Each time we notice...
Each time we say Hello...
We're quietly adding another tool to the collection.
The old shell wasn't wrong.
It was necessary.
It carried us exactly as far as it could.
But like everything else we've explored together, every shell deserves our stewardship.
Our environments change.
Our understanding changes.
So should we.
Not because who we are was ever broken...
But because who we are has always been growing.
Then something incredible begins to happen.
The shell no longer hides us.
It begins to reveal us.
And as it does...
The world finally gets to meet the person who was home all along.
It was during a late-night beach walk, my last summer in Florida, when I discovered me again.
I was finally home.
For several weeks, I'd been practicing waking up and taking note of my immediate feelings before the rest of the day's noise had a chance to join in.
Then something strange began happening.
During my walks, whenever I headed in one particular direction—a direction I'd affectionately labeled Trigger Way—one of those familiar feelings would arrive.
And then...
Poof.
It would vanish.
At first, I didn't know what to make of it.
Then another came.
And another.
And another.
I must have walked more than four miles in that direction, just to be clear.
Clear...
That's actually a pretty good word for how it felt.
Odd, certainly.
But really good at the same time.
Like the goosebumps from a song that somehow knows exactly where to find you.
So I did what I'd learned to do.
I got curious.
As I dug into whatever the source of this new sensation might be, I stumbled across a word.
Void.
Have you heard of this before?
The Void.
Sounds scary, doesn't it?
Maybe even a little taboo.
Yet what I found wasn't some frightening emptiness waiting inside me.
It was my Ness.
Everything I've been given to steward.
My agreements.
Their supporting stories.
The experiences that shaped them.
The shells that protected them.
And all that ocean still waiting around them.
How poetic, then, that we can learn to avoid our inner conflicts with almost instinctual speed.
We've gotten pretty good at that dance.
But something begins to change when, day by day, we practice beating ourselves up just a little bit less.
We notice.
We question.
We listen.
We stay.
And slowly, what once felt like avoidance begins to reveal something entirely different.
Maybe the Void was never something we needed to escape.
Maybe we've simply been learning the steps...
to A Void Dance.
Hello.
