“That’s way too much cheese.”

I knew it was coming. I even shredded less cheese than I wanted to out of fear of hearing the commentary.

Every time I cook pasta (or tacos or burritos) for us, it’s the same,

“That’s a mountain of cheese.”

“That’s way too much cheese.”

“We’re not going to finish all that cheese.”

I usually ignore it, but this last time was different; I snapped back,

“I knew you were going to say that. Every single time you say it.”

Those are the words that came out; these are the words I was thinking:

“Jesus fucking Christ, every fucking time. Can you stop finding what you think is wrong and be grateful I bust my ass in the kitchen? Does the quantity of cheese really fucking matter in the scope of our lives? Why does this matter? Why does this need a voice?”

My inner voice flowed from a sea of rage. Sometimes, rage feels good; this was not one of those times. I was embarrassed by my inner voice and reaction.

She expressed gratitude that I cooked (she always does), but she also expressed that I made her sound like a constant complainer.

I thanked her for her gratitude and apologized for making her feel that way. The irony is that there wasn’t enough cheese; she had to shred more, and she admitted she was wrong – a quality I appreciate about her.

I thanked her again, and we moved on—except I haven’t, and that’s why I’m here writing this.

As I age, I feel a gravitational pull toward my truth. That force leads me to examine the puppet strings that pull my life, strings that I don’t want pulling my life.

My inner dialogue and experience after her comment is one of those puppet strings.

The visceral response and experience aren’t about the cheese; it’s never about the cheese or whatever the cheese equivalent is.

She made an observation; that’s all she did.

It’s funny. I know my wife well enough to know that her observation about the cheese flows from one of her own wounds: the fear of being wasteful.

Two wounds collided in a perfect storm, leading me down a path of shame but creating a wonderful opportunity to learn and grow – if I do the work.

I gave meaning to the observation. I believed she was making me “wrong.”

The meaning I gave emerged from an old wound, one that hasn’t healed; I’m not sure it’s ever even scabbed over. It sits unhealed, raw, open, and vulnerable.

I must heal that wound to live more truthfully and experience the freedom that flows from truth.

For myself, my marriage, and the life I’m creating.

I grew up in a house where perfection was expected. It wasn’t something to celebrate; it was the norm; anything outside of the norm was bad.

Ninety-nine on a test wasn’t a great score; it was a failed attempt at perfection.

A hundred on a test was a failure if I missed the extra credit; one hundred isn’t perfect if one hundred and three is available.

Falling consistently short of expectations led me to believe if I wasn’t perfect, my best wasn’t good enough.

If my best wasn’t good enough, how could I possibly be good enough?

Inadequacies partner in crime unworthiness eventually joined the party, and I’ve spent most of my life operating from these wounds.

An innocuous comment about cheese cuts directly into the wound, like a knife dipped in bleach, twisting, turning, and digging its way in.

Stabbing furiously at my woeful inadequacies.

I’m a fifty-one-year-old man operating as a seven-year-old boy terrified of not doing things right.

Terrified of falling short of others’ opinions and expectations and not getting what so many of us want and desperately need—the approval and love of those we depend on for our survival.

I became so fucking afraid of not doing things “right” I stopped doing a lot of things, things I actually enjoyed but didn’t fit the mold of perfection and the norm.

Writing, inventing, and creating were all whimsical endeavors that were available to “them” but not me.

Giving up what I loved was terrible enough, but my beliefs weren’t done just yet.

Wounds aren’t a topical anesthetic targeting only one area; they’re a general anesthetic, dulling our human experience.

They bleed into, as they always do, all aspects of life.

I stopped putting myself fully into anything I did. Just enough to do okay, but never all the way.

Going all the way and falling short meant subjecting myself to the cruelty we so easily dish out to ourselves but wouldn’t dare say to another. When I fell short of a desired outcome, waves of shame slammed me into the shores of inadequacy and unworthiness.

Life became a matter of settling for just enough, and in some areas of my life, to do very well but never extraordinary.

But I want the extraordinary while simultaneously feeling that desire run headfirst into not being worthy of the extraordinary. It’s an exhausting cycle and one I’m tired of.

I don’t want to snap in my marriage; it doesn’t feel good to me (I’m “wrong” for doing it, and the shame burns brighter ) and certainly doesn’t feel good for her.

So, I have some healing to do, and writing this piece is a start. As I write, I feel whispers of the next step, and it’s taking the shape of only one word:

Safe.

That seven-year-old boy pulling the puppet strings of this fifty-one-year-old man doesn’t feel safe.

He won’t feel safe unless he’s perfect. Perfect means zero mistakes ever. Perfect means being right always. Perfect means perfection.

Perfect sounds like a prison.

I want that seven-year-old (and fifty-one-year-old) to know he can safely walk out of that prison.

He’s safe to be himself, he’s safe to make mistakes, he’s safe and doesn’t need to operate out of wounds that no longer serve him.

I want him to know he’s safe because a person’s identity is not the outcome but the effort and honesty invested in creating it.

Ernest Hemingway wrote,

“Go all the way with it. Do not back off. For once, go all the goddamn way with what matters.”

I’m beginning to understand this is the truest path to safety and healing. I also see it as one of the most terrifying ideas ever, which is why it’s healing.

Our fears contain the keys to our extraordinary lives if we’re willing to move toward them with curiosity.

We’re the safest we can ever be when we go all the goddamn way with what matters.

What matters to us is an expression of our authenticity, and when we live within our authenticity, we tap into levels of our potential we were unaware existed.

That’s our truth.

The truth is one of the most powerful (up there with love) states at our disposal.

The truth requires no memory, no masks and facades, no shoulds or expectations.

It’s unwavering in its simplicity.

If I want that seven-year-old boy to be safe, the fifty-one-year-old man must be the example that shows him what safety actually means.

A great place to start is by sharing this piece with my wife and having a conversation about this wound—because I’m scared to share it with her.

I know if I don’t share my wounds as part of the healing journey, I’m destined to operate from them until they’re healed or I die.

The seven-year-old boy, the fifty-one-year-old man, and every iteration yet to come are worthy of healing and the extraordinary.

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