How to Listen to Your Heart

What Do You REALLY Want?

The Courage to Listen to Your Heart and the Road Map It Creates

George arrives at my apartment and I wheel his rolling suitcase into my bedroom. While I’m fidgeting, he places his hands on my waist and leans in.

“You nervous?” he asks in the deep voice I’ve grown accustomed to on the other end of the phone. I nod, and then we’re kissing, which feels comfortable and familiar and an action with a purpose I can wrap my head around. This I understand. This has boundaries and rules and neat lines to color inside.

We do our usual dance. Sex. Drinks. More sex. Dirty jokes and catching up. Round three (yeehaw!), and then we both fall asleep. Easy-peasy. It isn’t till the next morning that cracks start to appear. I offer him milk for his coffee only to learn he drinks it black. Then there is an awkward dance around who will shower first and what we’ll do for the day, the answer to which turns out to be…nothing. We do nothing. The small talk fades away into silence and I am left grasping for topics to discuss. This goes beyond the shtick I know. And, believe me, I know shtick.

George is asleep, snoring lightly. His head is flopped back; in his lap is a red bowl with straggling crumbs of Chex Mix. His left knee, in nylon Denver Bronco lounge pants, is touching my right thigh, the soft and worn nubby tie-dyed fabric of my pants faded thin.

This moment is so utterly normal that it terrifies me.

I had eagerly anticipated our time together this long weekend. We had scheduled a four-day trip…which would turn into ninety-six hours of me being totally, utterly, out of my element as I wrestled with the presence of another human body in my living space and, even more terrifying, the realization that I liked it.

I’ve been single most of my entire adult life. So much, that I feel like I’ve gotten good at being alone.

Sure, I’ve dated, and I’ve had one (totally dysfunctional long-term) relationship after the age of twenty-five. But neither the dating nor the relationship ever spilled out over the constraints of planned activities or specific and designated periods of time. I’ve never lived with a partner or cohabitated space for any length of time, unlike the majority of my peers who have long been shacked up.

If I were being honest, I might even admit that I was more used to dating someone “inaccessible” than someone who was fingertips away. I never balked at the idea of being with someone who traveled for a living or split their time with parental duties. Being with someone who was never around to make plans with (or even someone who bailed on plans in favor of something “more important last-minute”) was my normal.

I’ve told myself that I like to be alone all the time.

I’ve told myself that relationships like this allowed me to remain “fiercely independent.”

I’ve told myself I didn’t actually want to do everyday, basic life shit with someone. One time, I dated a guy who, between kids’ soccer practices and work and obligations, had only slivers of time to allot to his personal life. He told me, “If you’re looking for a guy to sit on the couch and watch American Idol with you, that’s not me.” I thought that was cool. Who wanted to sit on the couch with someone watching TV anyway? That sounded boring as fuck.

At least that is what I’ve told myself.

During our time of nothingness together, I screwed up roast beef sandwiches by adding mayonnaise (which, apparently, George hated), and I offered him grapes (which, apparently, he also hated), and then we were back on the couch. (We’d been sleeping together for years; I should know these things about him, right?) George grabs the remote control and flips through the channels. I teeter precariously and uncomfortably on the couch, forcing my legs to “tuck under themselves” like I’m a Jane Austen heroine and not a three-hundred-plus-pound thirty-something pretzel with thighs and a stomach that thwart my desired pose. I want my assets presented properly and I keep my eyes on George as I adjust to check and see if he’s noticed. He hasn’t. I wiggle my shirt down a little in the front…still nothing. He seems unfazed. What do I do now? It is just as I am asking myself this question that I notice he has fallen asleep.

There’s a knock at my door. I scamper up to answer (and, believe me, I do scamper just in case George magically opens his eyes because I want him to see me looking agile and curvaceous, like a chunky gazelle).

My landlady has popped by to pick up a set of cookie sheets I borrowed. I tell her I have company, and she notices my silver ballet flats, which are lined up neatly next to George’s large sneakers.

“Aww look,” she coos, “boy shoes, girl shoes…”

This hits me like a brick wall. The simple appearance of shoes, in perfect symmetry next to each other. His shoes, my shoes. My shoes…next to the shoes of another.

I’ve never seen them that way before. It looks foreign and funny but, at the same time, totally normal…My center shifts. Why not my shoes?

The silver ballet flats are girly and look slight compared to his big, rubbery sneakers. I like the stark difference between the two. As if our shoes existed to complement each other, to maneuver them into position and the natural order of life. The idea that one pair could belong to another. Make a home next to each other. It’s so simple. Maybe I want this…Do I want this? I think I do.

A little truth bomb has been planted; soon, it will explode. I ask myself, Why do I want this now when I’ve never wanted it before? But I know that is a lie. If I were really being honest with myself, I’ve always wanted this.

Walking back to the couch, I settle into position while George snores away, unaware of my burgeoning existential crisis. My mind veers back to a specific memory of when my dad would pick me up for our Friday night ice-skating dates post my parents’ divorce. It was a neat few hours every week that we’d always finish off with a cup of cookies-and-cream ice cream from my favorite place. On the offhand chance I’d spend the night at my dad’s apartments, I’d show up as Happy Sleepover Sarah with my Gap tote bag containing everything I’d need for the time away, including a toothbrush, pajamas, and a book (I hated doing this. Did I mention I wasn’t allowed to leave any of those things behind?).

I didn’t know why I wasn’t allowed to have this kind of time and space with my dad; I just knew it wasn’t offered to me so, eventually, I stopped hoping for it. But I did want it. I knew I wasn’t allowed to express this desire to my mom, who still carried a degree of resentment toward him after their split. And why would I reveal it to my dad? If he wanted to see me more, surely, he would. I gather that was the moment I tucked my dream away of ever feeling safe and unguarded and completely at ease with a male figure. There was no use in even wanting it, since I so clearly didn’t deserve it…And just like that, this lie became my truth.

As one would expect, the relationship I had with my father would set the tone for all the relationships I would have with men as I grew up. Like many people naturally do when denied something they deeply desire, I eventually hardened to the idea of what it was I really wanted. I told myself I didn’t want actual intimacy with a man. I learned to protect myself a little by self-abandoning, telling myself time and time again I didn’t care about spending more time with my father; I didn’t need it and I certainly didn’t want it. As an adult, I repeated the pattern, self-abandoning time and time again, telling myself I didn’t need a real “life” with a romantic partner. I saved myself the pain by never even allowing myself to think about it. Hardening your heart, over time, can easily turn into an allergy, and then resistance, and, ultimately, full-on denial. Why would I ever want to sit on the couch with a guy and watch American Idol? Ugh, that’s so fucking boring…

I couldn’t see that I was screaming for a man to prove me wrong, to heal the open wound from my childhood that had festered for so long. To show me I deserved life with someone! All I knew was that I was ending up in relationships with guys who perpetuated the pattern of inaccessibility. So, there you go. I was right! I didn’t deserve it or need it. I didn’t even want it. Like with Jake. I let the armor of my heart crack open just a bit and dared to believe it was all possible for me—the life, the family, the shared space—and so I moved to Kentucky to claim it once and for all! And we know what happened there…See how good that fucking worked out, Sarah. That’s what you get for even bothering to try. So, I put the desire back on the highest shelf, until I saw those fucking shoes.

I wanted my shoes lined up next to someone else’s. There you go. I said it. This crack in my wall was small but decisive; everything had changed.

Soul Archaeology: A (Totally Doable) Approach to Creating a Self-Loving and Liberated Life is available from Amazon and Bookshop.