I want autonomy.
I want to be an island, a rock, free as a bird, self-sufficient. I want to need no one. I want to be able to care for all of my own needs. I want the freedom to do what I want when I want to do it, to travel the world, to take up a hobby, to plan my own life or to not make plans at all. I don’t want to have to consider anyone else’s needs or schedule or dietary restrictions.
I want connection.
I want to have people to lean on, to talk to, to share my experiences with. I want people to see the real me, to know who I am in my core. I want to make an impact on others, and to grow through the impact others make on me. I want to be able to risk openness, to risk vulnerability, and yet know it’s not actually that much of a risk at all, because I am loved and accepted as the most authentic version of myself.
I fear autonomy.
It gets so lonely not having anyone around. It’s not about needing a romantic partner, necessarily, but rather about wondering what my purpose is, what everything is all for. I keep people at arm’s length in order to preserve my freedom, my independence, my sense of self that I’ve worked so hard to carve out. Part of me loves that I can rely on myself for anything I need, and part of me wishes another person knew me well enough to anticipate those needs, to step up, to give me love and support when I need it most.
I fear connection.
Connection is so vulnerable, and that feels really dangerous. When someone knows me, truly sees into me, they can hurt me in a way I wish I couldn’t be hurt. My most intimate and secret wants, needs, fears, dreams, and anxieties can be weaponized in the hands of the wrong person… and how can I ever know I’m choosing the right person? And people are so complicated and messy, so full of need. They chew with their mouths open and leave their socks on the floor and pick their noses and snore. Wasn’t it Sartre who said, “Hell is other people”?
I worry that autonomy will compromise my chance for connection.
When I’m very old, looking back at my life, I will have had many wonderful experiences, but who will I have impacted? What legacy will I leave on the world if no one ever truly knows me intimately, if I never let anyone in? If only I could experience everything I want to and share it all with someone, without having to change anything about my life. But if I don’t have to change my life, am I even really experiencing connection at all?
I worry that connection will compromise my chance for autonomy.
Don’t I have to love myself first, before I can love another person? Don’t I have to finish building my whole self before I’m ready to stop that process and start building a connection with someone else? And how do I know when I love myself enough? How do I know when I’m done growing, when I’m ready to merge my life with another person’s, when I will be enough for someone else?
And what if I do that too soon? Will I ever reach my potential? Can I be the spontaneous, adventuresome person who I know is buried deep inside me, and also have stability?
I crave balance.
This is the human condition. It is the stuff of midlife crises and life transitions and questions about partnering and parenting. It shows up in different ways at different stages of life, and it’s ever morphing, ever changing, always fluid.
So I wake up every day and try to strike a balance. How can I be my most genuine self, to honor my wants and needs, to make sure I don’t become a bystander in my own life… while also building meaningful connections with other people, achieving the kind of purpose that can only come with attachment, and seeking companions and partners in this crazy thing called life?
It’s bittersweet, truly. And as with so many life questions, I find solace in lyrics by Steven Sondheim – this time, from the musical Company:
Someone to hold me too close.
Someone to hurt me too deep.
Someone to sit in my chair,
And ruin my sleep,
And make me aware
Of being alive.
Somebody need me too much.
Somebody know me too well.
Somebody pull me up short,
And put me through hell,
And give me support
For being alive.