In deep

I received a message from an old friend last night. She sends me these beautiful, thoughtful voice notes, which often make me laugh out loud, and always make me feel better for having heard them. I love voice notes. For an introvert, they are the perfect way to have a conversation. You hear the other person’s voice so it’s more connective that a text, but, you have time to formulate a response and you can take it at your own pace. There’s none of the post-conversational regret that I often get when I speak to somebody in real-time.

Unexpected phone calls cause me anxiety. We don’t, as a rule, speak on the telephone so much these days, so when my phone does ring, I immediately wonder who has died. Especially if it’s a phone call from the school. They are always quick to reassure, but for a few seconds I fear the worst. No, I don’t trust anyone who thinks it’s a good idea to call somebody on the phone without reason. Just text you psychopath.

How did we cope before?

Remember back in the day when we only had a house phone and no caller ID? I don’t know how we did it, picking up a ringing phone and having no idea who (or what news) was on the other end of the line. Even worse, calling somebody else and not knowing who would pick up. I called a guy I fancied from the pub once. He didn’t give me his number (I know, it’s very obvious now) and so I looked him up in the telephone book. He had an unusual surname and there were only two entries, so I took pot luck. His grandmother was very lovely when she told me that I’d chosen the wrong number. I got the impression that this wasn’t the first time she’d had to field calls for her (very) handsome grandson.

Deep

Anyway, I digress. I smiled when my friend’s voice note came in, even though it was a Sunday evening and I was just about to do my bedtime yoga. I knew that I was in for a treat. Then a text popped up underneath, a disclaimer of sorts. “This is pretty deep for a Sunday, evening” she warned, “you might want to leave it for another day.”

While well meaning, the warning wasn’t required. You see, I live for deep. Deep is my favourite. For me, there’s nothing worse than having to make banal small talk: I find no connection there. I saw an old friend for lunch recently and whilst it was nice to see them, I came away depleted. Initially I couldn’t understand why. Then it dawned on me: our conversation was shallow. We talked about holidays and the kids and our partners but there was no depth. Like a game of ping-pong, we batted questions back and forth with no real effort to find out how the other person was actually doing.

For me, if it’s not deep then what’s the point? I have no problem sharing most aspects of my life and have been known to go deep with near strangers. And if somebody trusts me enough to share something real about themself, then I know that we’re on the same wavelength.

It’s through sharing that we know we’re not alone. That things we might be struggling with are not unique to us. It helps us to feel normal, to feel seen.

Older and wiser

Maybe it’s an age thing because, I don’t think that I was as keen to overshare when I was younger. But, back then I wore a mask, unable to show my real self. I didn’t know who I was yet and still saw other women as adversaries rather than allies. Sharing meant making myself vulnerable and I wasn’t ready to go there.

Now, most women I know are happy to go deep. There’s no subject off limits, no shame, no judgement. It’s how we make sense of our lives and the world around us.

After listening to my friend’s message, even though I have known her for 30-years, I felt like I knew her, and myself, deeper than before.

Deep forges real connection and I don’t want anything less that that.