The verdict is in. Love via
connection is absolutely necessary for brain growth, development and
maintenance. Technically, this verdict has been in for a long time, however neuroscientists
continue to observe the effects love - or neglect - has on the brain,
especially as new technologies become available. Specifically after the recent
pandemic, loneliness has skyrocketed, isolation has increased, and more people
are suffering depression and other cognitive declines. Why? Because strong social
connections support cognitive stimulation, new neural pathways, emotional
support, stress reduction and overall well-being.
Some of
our relationships are strong, supportive and build us up; some are neutral; and
others tend to drain us, making us feel exhausted after leaving the interaction.
What is the difference? It’s easy to believe it may be about common interests, beliefs,
age, etc. But what I have found is that is largely irrelevant, especially for
one who needs the strength of deeper relationships.
The key
is vulnerability. It’s about dropping the masks; the facades that make you
appear perfect. Because true connection doesn’t happen in perfection; it happens
in the cracks where the relationship can be mutually beneficial.
I don’t have the option to cover my
flaws. I don’t get to curate what people see. The TBI makes darn sure of that. After
15 years, I do a dang good job of hiding how extreme things are, but I cannot disguise
every raw emotion and every imperfection. The exhaustion. The overwhelm. The
emotional volatility. The cognitive chaos. The way I stumble over
things—internally and externally. It’s all there, out in the open, whether I
want it to be or not.
I walk into every interaction already exposed.
Therefore, if there’s no visible
mess, no cracks, no vulnerability—and when that’s all I ever see, it doesn’t
make me feel safe. It makes me feel invisible. Ignored. Like I don’t even exist
in their world; I can’t, they have no need for me. I have nothing to contribute.
When I’m standing there, raw and
unfiltered, and someone else is polished, composed, and perfect, it doesn’t
matter how kind they are. I don’t feel connected. I feel judged, even if they
don’t say a word. I feel inferior, even when they’re trying to be helpful. I
feel invisible—because their perfection fills the room so completely, there’s
no space left for me.
I’m sure that many of these people likely
have good intentions. They think that their steadiness is comforting. To a
child, it would be; but not to someone who is supposed to be an equal. Unfortunately,
it’s worse than that. It’s as though they are on a pedestal, refusing to look
me in the eye. When someone approaches me with polished perfection, it feels
like they’re speaking at me, not to me—like
I’m beneath them. Not in a childlike way. More like a servant. Someone you
don’t make eye contact with. Someone you speak around, not with. Someone who
exists to listen, not to be listened to. That’s what perfection feels like.
Like I’m allowed in the room, but not invited to be human.
If you want to connect with me, I need you to share something real with me—a struggle, an insecurity, anything that shows you can meet me on my level. It doesn’t have to be huge or devastating, but it has to be honest. You don’t have to share it with everyone, but I need to know that you aren’t perfect. Because connection happens when we drop the masks and meet each other in the messy middle, where no one is flawless and everyone carries burdens. We must first meet in order to connect; and we meet in the messy middle.
