People tell me I’m honest like it’s a surprise. Like I’ve just blurted out a confession or a truth they weren’t expecting — and they either nod with admiration or laugh like I’ve just told the world’s driest joke.

And I guess the truth is: I don’t know how to be any other way.

I’ve never had the energy for pretending. Not for long, anyway. It’s like my brain doesn’t know how to hold two versions of the truth at once — the real one and the one people might want to hear. So, I say the real one. Gently, if I can. But still, I say it.

And sometimes, I’m too honest — especially about myself. I’ll share something raw or vulnerable, thinking I’m just being open, and then I’ll get that awkward silence or a half-smile followed by, “Maybe you shouldn’t have said that.” People have told me it wasn’t the right time or place. That it made them uncomfortable. And I get it — kind of. But also, I don’t.

Because I wasn’t trying to make anyone uncomfortable. I was just telling the truth. I didn’t know better. I wasn’t trying to shock or overshare. I just don’t feel like I have much to hide. So it’s hard when other people act like I should. Like honesty about yourself is something to be rationed or kept behind glass.

When that happens, I feel this particular type of shame — like I broke some invisible social rule I didn’t know existed. And I hate that feeling. It makes me want to disappear and never say anything again. But I always do say something again. Because that’s how I process the world — honestly, openly, and usually without a filter.

One moment about honesty that has really stuck with me happened during one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. I was teaching at St. Paul’s Catholic School in Pensacola, and I knew I wasn’t mentally well enough to keep doing my job at the capacity my students deserved. I brought that truth to my principal — a wonderful, wonderful woman whom I deeply admire — and one thing she said to me was: “It’s good that you’re being honest with yourself.”

And that really stayed with me. It reminded me how powerful self-honesty can be — how freeing it is to speak the truth out loud, especially when it hurts.

But I’m still not sure what level of honesty is appropriate around other people. Is there a line? Or is it okay to just be honest, period — and let other people sit with the discomfort of the truth? Because otherwise, I’m the one sitting there, uncomfortable, holding it in. And I don’t think that’s fair either.

What’s especially wild is that usually, it’s the people who are big “MAGA” Trump supporters who’ve told me I should tone it down. To watch what I say. To keep certain things to myself. And those same people are the first to say, “I just love how honest Trump is,” like that somehow makes the things he says okay.

They’re not okay. Not even close. Not even a little. In fact, a lot of what he says is freaky — like in a scary, very very scary way. But sure, let’s police honesty when it’s soft and vulnerable and real… and praise it when it’s cruel and loud and dangerous. Makes total sense.

Sometimes I wonder if “honesty is the best policy” actually means anything. People usually say it when they’re not being honest at all — or when they’re about to say something that is true but also kind of mean. I try not to do that.

I really believe in gentle honesty. Telling the truth with care. Being real without being reckless. Being warm even when the words are hard.

Still, people laugh. They say I’m funny — usually right after I’ve said something deeply true without meaning it to be a punchline. I’ve decided I’m okay with that. If my honesty makes people laugh and think at the same time, that’s not the worst thing.

So yeah. I’m honest. Not because it’s a strategy. Not because it’s brave. Just because it’s me.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

–Honestly, Me