Unfiltered: Why Authenticity is My New Superpower
The "Brave" Misconception
Since I started The Jen Journal, I’ve had a lot of people tell me, "Wow, Jen, you’re so brave for putting yourself out there like that." They say it with that tilted-head, sympathetic look that usually precedes a casserole I didn't ask for. They see the words on the screen and think I’m auditioning for a Lifetime movie.
But here’s the truth: I don’t feel brave at all.
Bravery implies I had a choice. It implies I woke up and said, "Today, I think I’ll bare my soul to the internet for funsies!" Trust me, I’d much rather be complaining about Greg leaving his socks on the floor than writing about the "wrongness" of him not being here to take out the trash. I don’t write because I’m fearless; I write because I’m drowning, and honesty is the only life jacket that doesn't smell like mothballs.
Grief Isn't a Phase (Sorry, Not Sorry)
I think people use the word "brave" because it makes them feel better. They want to believe grief is a "phase"—like that unfortunate perm I had in the 80s—something you eventually grow out of and laugh about later.
Newsflash: Grief isn’t a phase. It’s a permanent piece of luggage you carry for the rest of your life. And let’s be real, it’s not a cute, carry-on spinner. It’s that massive, oversized trunk that exceeds the weight limit and has a broken wheel.
When you lose your soulmate, you don't "get over it". You just develop the upper body strength to lug that trunk around while working full-time, being a mom to two amazing adults, and a Grammy to two beautiful grandkids—all without looking like you’re having a total meltdown in the middle of the airport.
The Shift: From Reputation to Authenticity
I’ve always been a highly-functioning person. I’m an expert at compartmentalizing—I have to be to do my job and lead my family. But when you lose your soulmate, something inside shifts.
I’ve found that I’m no longer concerned with my "reputation" or how people perceive me. The polished image I used to maintain feels like a heavy coat that doesn't fit anymore. Now, my only concern is whether or not I’m being authentic.
I’ve realized that the most "high-functioning" thing I can do now isn't to look perfect; it’s to be real enough that other people feel like they have permission to take their masks off, too.
The Power of Being Raw
My "superpower" isn't bravery. It’s the refusal to lie about how much this sucks. By being raw about the restlessness and the phantom whistles, I’m not trying to be a hero. I’m just trying to acknowledge that my life’s blueprints got shredded and I’m currently building a new foundation with spit and sheer stubbornness.
There is a strange kind of power in just saying, "This is heavy, I’m going to be carrying it forever, and no, I don't want a pamphlet about 'Finding Your Joy' in 30 days". When we drop the "I’m fine" act, we stop wasting energy on the performance and start focusing on the resilience.
Your Turn: Just Two Sentences
I want to encourage you to do the same. Don't feel like you have to write a novel or a philosophical treatise to be "authentic". If all you’ve got in you today is two sentences about how the laundry is winning or how much you hate the silence, write it down. Whether it’s a profound realization or just a brief, salty observation about how the universe is annoying you, get it out of your head. You don't need a leather-bound journal; a cocktail napkin or a sticky note works just fine.
The Conclusion
At the end of the day, there’s no "bravery" award I’m looking to win. I’m just trying to be the most honest version of this "new Jen" I can be. Some days that looks like professional poise, and other days it looks like standing in my kitchen and screaming *"F#%K THIS SH#T" at the top of my lungs because the math of this life just doesn't add up.
I want you to know that in this space, you can say exactly that. I won’t judge you, because I’m right there with you.
As much as I value the support, my heart is still looking for the "return to sender" button on this whole experience. I don’t want a pat on the back, a Hallmark platitude, or a pamphlet about "Finding Your Joy". If there was a trade-in policy for all the sympathy and lukewarm casseroles in the world, I’d hand it over in a heartbeat just to hear Greg whistle one more time.
But since life doesn’t offer refunds, I’ll settle for being raw, being real, and being remarkably stubborn. I’m going to keep writing the quiet parts out loud—and I’m going to keep the luggage.
I’ll see you in the Lounge. Bring your honesty (and your best swear words), but maybe leave the lasagna at the door.
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