But shove one under water and see what happens.
It fights.
It writhes.
It waits.
And the harder you push it down, the harder it explodes back up.
That’s what we do with pain. With shame. With fear.
We stuff it.
We smile over it.
We sit in boardrooms and PTA meetings, holding it underwater with white knuckles, praying no one sees the struggle in our arms.
We convince ourselves: I’ve got it handled.
Until one day, the beachball shoots up, smacks us in the face, and knocks over the whole damn pool party.
That’s what happened to me. My beachball didn’t surface quietly. It detonated. And when it did, it took my career, my reputation, my sense of self right down with it.
Here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner:
Your beachball is not the enemy.
It’s the invitation.
It’s begging to be seen, not shoved.
To be held, not hidden.
To be named, not drowned.
Because if you don’t deal with your beachball now, it will deal with you later. And later always comes.
Whatever your beachball is, take it gently in both hands.
Lift it into the light.
Cry over it, laugh at it, hurl it at the waves if you must. Just stop shoving it down.
Because the cost of hiding it is always greater than the cost of holding it.
We all have beachballs.
But the bravest among us are the ones who finally stop treading water and say:
I’m done hiding. I’m ready to breathe.
“But everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light.”
-Ephesians 5:13
Comments