Feel Your Feelings

It's better than the alternative

I don’t subscribe to the “Fuck Your Feelings” mantra that seems so prevalent among people who are usually very deep in their own feelings — probably misplaced — when they scream it at those of us attempting to become emotionally evolved.

I don’t even understand it.

Who are we, after all, without our feelings? Feelings about the things we’ve experienced. Feelings about what we’d like to learn or who we’d like to be. The feelings we have for other people.

Feelings are our identity.

My brain never stops moving, which is, frankly, exhausting. I often wish I could turn it off for a while, or at least slow it down.

And because I’m always thinking, sometimes I assume that everyone else is, too. Do people in the “F*** Your Feelings” crowd feel scared of showing their feelings, or lack thereof, because it would reveal that they have no true identity? That they’re deflecting the emptiness inside of them and turning feelings into a weakness?

And then I remember that they probably haven’t really thought it through that far.

If they did, they might realize that feeling feelings is an escape from that emptiness. An escape that sometimes goes too far in the opposite direction — we call that depression and anxiety — but an escape nonetheless.

I wish I could say it’s nothing to be afraid of, but that wouldn’t be true. Confronting your own feelings, allowing yourself to feel them, then finding a way to express them, can be one of the hardest things we as humans can do.

This goes for pretty much all feelings. Ever find yourself falling in love? Turns out love can be just as scary as confronting your fear of flying or figuring out the triggers to your anxiety.

But the only way to move past those feelings, and to be more comfortable the next time they arrive, is to feel them. Sit in them for a few minutes or a few hours — maybe a few days. And then share them with someone you trust.

It’s a lot more fulfilling than shouting “F*** your feelings,” I promise.

Those FYF people would probably call me soft. Dealing with depression and anxiety, at least in my experience, means that I feel things incredibly deeply.

This is usually a blessing. My deep feelings provide me with empathy, sympathy, care for living things, generosity, understanding and a desire to help whomever, however and whenever I can.

The occasional slide into a darker place, I’m realizing literally as I type this, is a relatively small price to pay for the positive attributes my feelings give me.

But what about that label — soft?

I don’t know why “soft” is an insult. Who doesn’t love soft things? The soft fur of our pets. A soft pillow on which to lie our heads every night while cozying up underneath a soft blanket.

Soft, fluffy pancakes. Soft-serve ice cream. Silk. Feathers. Cotton candy.

This isn’t even a contest. Give me soft any day of the week.

And especially call me soft if it means I’m in touch with my own feelings, sensitive to those of others, and understanding that there will always be work to do.

Are you in your feelings? Are you soft? Then, in my book, you’re on the right track. And F*** anybody who tells you differently.