The Tale of Two Shuttles

What a week with strangers taught me about why we go quiet, and what happens when we find the courage to speak up

Jared Meyer, MA, LPC, helping men close the gap between the life they're living and the life they want.

Recently, I stepped into a weeklong experience not knowing a single person. And check this: the whole week was built on the expectation that the relationships we formed would play a big role in what we got out of it. Sound scary to anyone else? I was simultaneously terrified and thrilled.

I needed this to work. I arrived tired, coming off a long and demanding season.

I stepped off the plane, gathered my bags, made a final phone call to my wife and stepped onto the dark-windowed shuttle to find it nearly full… and as quiet as a home stadium after a last-second loss to a bitter rival (sorry y'all… way too many real experiences with this one). I quickly scanned for friendly faces, then took one of the final seats.

And then… SILENCE.

We all knew we were there for ourselves and each other, but in that moment, the uncertainty kept us quiet and disconnected from one another.

Feeling the suspense (and awkwardness)? Yeah, me too. The good news is the silence was quickly broken when a kind shuttle driver gently nudged us to get to know one another. He told us the people on this shuttle were about to be part of a transformational week. If we felt disconnected in those first 10 minutes, the week that followed was proof of just how powerful connection can be.

Why we go quiet

I could say a lot about disconnection and the reasons many of us, particularly men, feel disconnected from the things that matter most to us. I have many examples from my own life and from the lives of men I've walked alongside in my counseling office and beyond. But to keep it simple: most of the places we spend our lives (the office, our families, church, the golf course, the ballfield) send us a quiet message that certain inconvenient parts of us aren't welcome. The struggling parts. The scared parts. The "I'm not okay" parts. Many of us learned this early in life as a way to get by, and because it's so familiar, we rarely question it. It keeps us from being fully ourselves.

Picture this: a 12-year-old baseball player who has grown up experiencing tremendous success in his sport hits a season-long slump. He's known how to exist in a world where success has defined him, but by the third week of his struggles, he begins hearing the whispers. "What's happened to him?" "We were really counting on his offense." He feels his buddies pulling away, because neither he nor they know how to interact in a situation like this. His parents want to support him and provide more hitting lessons, but they're unsure how to communicate support and, instead, add more pressure to perform. This is a perfect recipe for disconnection, distance and a boy who quietly decides he'd better handle things on his own, and that he's only worth what he produces.

Some of us were that kid. Some of us are now the parent signing him up for more lessons.

Or maybe the story is more like the boy whose energy always seems to get him in trouble. He's bombarded with messages: "You talk too much." "You need to focus." "Can you please just chill out?" Meanwhile, very little attention is given to his beaten-down soul that feels "too much" for his environment.

There are a thousand ways we walk out of childhood with some form of the message, "this world is unsafe for me." And children, being the most adaptable little creatures, figure out a way forward where they learn to keep their hearts and souls protected from the people closest to them. You can trace a lot of what we struggle with as grown men back to the ways we've interpreted the world as unsafe. As a result, we often feel disconnected from who we really are and from the people closest to us, because we've learned to protect the most sensitive parts of us.

In counseling, we'd call these protective strategies. A child is wired to stay connected to the people he depends on, so when being fully himself seems to threaten that connection, he adapts. He gets quieter, tougher, more impressive, or more invisible. Those adaptations made sense at the time. The trouble is that they don't expire. Years later, a grown man is still running a strategy built by a boy, and it quietly costs him the very connection it was designed to protect.

And the cost is great. It rarely looks dramatic. More often, it looks like this:

• Perfectionism: needing everything around us in order, because what's going on inside feels anything but. Underneath, there's often a steady hum of anxiety.

• Over-functioning: the late nights at the office and the calendar with no white space, because deep down we believe our value is tied to what we produce. Eventually, this is what burnout looks like.

• Numbing: the second (or third) bourbon, the endless scroll, the game that's always on. Anything to take the edge off. For some of us, it becomes addiction.

• Isolation: "I'm fine." Life feels safer and more predictable if I don't rely on anyone. At home, it can show up as a short fuse or as feeling more like roommates than partners.

• Resignation: after enough hard seasons, we stop believing things can change, so we stop trying. This is often where depression settles in, less like sadness and more like flatness.

• Fill in your own blank: the list is endless.

  
  

At some point, many of us notice the gap between the life we're living and the life we want. That's an inflection point. Keep running the same old playbook, or invite something different.

Made to heal together

I am a huge fan of the 12-step recovery community. This may sound a little weird, but I'm a little jealous of the rich community that is often found in AA, NA, SA and Al-Anon meetings. There is something powerful in acknowledging our powerlessness and inviting others to witness it. This acknowledgment, in the context of an understanding community, is the bedrock of change and transformation.

We were never meant to carry life's burdens alone. Asking for help is courageous and empowering. When we name our shame and our struggles in a safe, accepting community, we start to heal.

We are made to heal in community.

The research on attachment and healing points the same direction. Shame grows in secrecy and loses its grip when it's spoken out loud to someone safe. Our nervous systems settle in the presence of people who can stay steady with us. We don't just heal around other people. We heal through them.

There is something to be said for how the ancient ways often guide us to healthy ways of living. Don't get me wrong, I love modern conveniences. I'm not much of a tent-camping kind of guy (love the idea, but the sleeplessness I experience is not my jam). But for most of human history, people did life together: shared meals, shared journeys, literally carrying each other's burdens. We were made to be in relationship: with something greater than ourselves, with our families and community, and with ourselves. And we can only fully know ourselves in the context of the relationships we're a part of.

The circle

So, back to that week. The entire week was structured around telling our "stories" within the context of community. And without exception, it went deeper than I ever expected.

One of the most profound moments for me was a circle affirmation, where we split into two groups, with half of us seated in a circle and the other half on the outside of the circle. We then went to each person, one after another, sharing an affirmation we needed to hear as a kid and still need as adults. We were able to share and hear nearly 20 affirmations each. So powerful.

Mine was "you are enough just as you are."

As I whispered my affirmation again and again into the ears of my new friends, the words seeped deeper into my soul, and I imagined them doing the same in theirs. And as I received the words of others with heart and hands open, something in me released, and I exhaled.

Think back to those two boys. That's what they needed to hear. It's what most of us still need to hear.

Each of the 30+ participants left with different conclusions about what they learned, but what was consistent among everyone was the power of connection. We found the safety to be our whole selves (broken, beautiful and unfolding), and being fully seen, known and loved is what changed us.

The ride home

And the shuttle ride back to the airport? Amazing. Rich, deep conversation about our fears, our hopes, the growth ahead, and how good it felt to be going home with the support of new friends. It was loud. And we were so sad to say goodbye at the end. Such a picture of what connection can do.

Same shuttle. Completely different ride.

We often don't know the power of connection until we've experienced it.

And it was CONNECTION that led me to the healing and renewal I needed.

Why I do this work

That week reminded me why I became a counselor.

Many men walk into my office for the first time feeling a lot like I did on that first shuttle: unsure, guarded, and and waiting to see if this is a safe place to open up. That's normal. For a lot of men, counseling is the first place they get to practice saying the true thing out loud and discovering that the person across from them doesn't flinch. That steady, safe relationship is part of the healing itself. Old protective strategies start to relax, and over time, what gets practiced in the counseling room starts showing up at home, at work, and in faith.

I remember just how good it feels to be known. To be known by God, to be known by myself and to be known by others. And I can't help but want that for the men I work with.

If you've noticed the gap between the life you're living and the life you want, you don't have to keep riding in silence. I'd be glad to talk. You can reach out at AnchorRidgeCC.com to schedule a time to connect. You were made for connection, and it's never too late to experience it.

A few reflection questions

• Where in your life are you still riding in silence, waiting for someone else to go first?

• Which of the costs above feels most familiar to you?

• What's the affirmation you needed to hear as a kid? Who could you let close enough to say it to you now?