I saw some cops having lunch at the diner the other day. There were three of them, big guys crammed into a booth, working through club sandwiches and fries.
They each wore a heavy leather utility belt with a flashlight, handcuffs, mace, a Taser, a notebook, a radio, a nightstick, a big handgun, extra rounds, and who knows what else. Each officer sat stiffly erect — under their uniforms, their torsos were girded in thick bulletproof vests.
When their meal was done, one officer reached for the bill — but it slipped out of his grip and fluttered to the floor. He leaned over, grunting, to pick it up.
Straining and cursing, he couldn’t bend in the middle to reach it. The gun, the vest, all the clobber had him strapped down and inflexible.
Eventually, a waitress saw his predicament and darted down to lightly pick up the bill and replace it in front of him.
Life has forced me to armor up.
As I endure traumas, disasters, mistakes, I have layered on defenses to protect me from what might happen again. I put on arrogance, cynicism, “expertise.” I spoke from my head and locked down my heart.
But many of my shields are redundant, obsolete, and stifling. As they say in the Pentagon, I am always preparing to fight the last war.
And the more I struggle to be fully protected, locked and loaded, the weaker I grow under all that Kevlar.
For years I wrote essays that told people what to do to be successful creatives. I positioned myself as a successful and all-knowing coach, and dispensed advice, tips, and earnest pep talks.
I never felt entirely comfortable with this posture, but it made me appear successful, strong, and in command.
Then a year or two ago, I decided I would slip off this armor of authority and just share my own experiences. I would stop lecturing and just tell you what I’ve been through, what I feel, what I wrestle with.
In the end, that’s really the only thing I’m an expert in.
When I am willing to expose myself to danger, I get stronger and more flexible, more resilient and brave. The more I allow myself to be vulnerable, the more helpful I become and the lighter I feel.
My art isn’t about being right or innovative or a genius.
It’s just about me with my gut hanging out.
Your pal,
Danny
P.S. Lots of people have been buying my new book, Unpublishable (click here to get yours too). Thank you! If you’d like to go one step further, please leave a nice review on Amazon. My 13-year-old self really appreciates it.
At the age of 83, I was congratulating myself on my reasonably good health - then I fell and cracked my spine, and suddenly, 2 years later, I am an old man, walking bent over. Take care.
I was ready to say relatable and likable, vulnerability opens hearts. 291015?? ;op