Knowing Is a Thing That Happens Small

Part 2 of my look back on a dozen months of Sundays.

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This is the second of two posts reflecting on the Sunday small group I started back in January. If you missed the first:

A Dozen Months of Sundays (Part 1)

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Last Sunday’s conversation was our 42nd and final of the year. I’m a big fan of reunions and decided to open this one up to all 21 people who were part of the group in 2023. While some folks stayed for nine and ten and even eleven months, others did just one. Which is okay! My hope from the beginning was that each person would feel free to come and go based on what worked best for them. And each time someone decided to move on, their exit created an opening for someone new to join.

Most of the 21 wonderful humans could be found smiling when our Zoom meeting began at 7pm eastern. And somehow the majority of us were still there smiling when the clock on my computer said we had reached a different day. There was a lot of reconnecting among those who spent meaningful time together earlier in the year, and had not seen each other since. The group each month was limited to nine people including me, with more than twice that number participating over the course of 12 months. And so a bunch of folks met for the first time at the reunion. “I’ve heard so much about you,” was really cool to hear.

We listened as each person offered an update on how this year played out. Some shared what they found and gained in all the Sundays. We talked about grief—breakups and funerals and good pups gone too soon. (We miss you Buddy and Tater.) We talked about chronic illness, medical uncertainty, and what’s hard within our families. We laughed a lot as well, just like we did all year, as new jokes mixed with ones from prior seasons.

It was my first time seeing Britt’s face since the summer, after six straight months together in the group. When she was done speaking, I unmuted. And did my best to find the words. Then started crying. Which was fine because it said better what I wanted Britt to know. Seeing her again, reuniting in this space shared and familiar, it meant the world.

Another we adore, this person had allowed us to know her through a painful breakup at the beginning of the year. 2023 also took her grandma and her dog. We had known about the grief. Her update gave us evidence of healing, signs of life and possibility even in December. She told new stories with a smile, all so good to see and good to hear, plus a reminder to the rest of us what’s possible.

For one within the group, self-care had been a major struggle. We got to cheer as they took meaningful steps throughout our many Sundays. Now time had passed and so the update felt important.

With a smile we were told that they’re still doing it. Still swimming to get exercise, still showering consistently, still brushing their teeth. And with the help of family, in the midst of fear after a lot of years away, they had gone back to the dentist. When it came time to announce the winners of awards, the one for progress went to them.

We gave Angie an award for sensitivity, Britt for her encouragement, Charis won for wisdom. We recognized Julie’s brilliant brevity. (Her acceptance speech was wonderful and brief.) When we got to the award for vulnerability, it was a tie between two people. Which made sense because they both went through so much this year, and each one just kept on showing up to share. Both allowed us to walk with them.

Best Laugh went to Kofi after Bri got one for keeping us all laughing. Catherine received the Center Square (or Rectangle) Award, Angie’s way of saying seeing Catherine helped her to feel safe. The Frequent Flyer Award wasn’t close. Because Colleen kept reminding us that the people who we see inside the rectangles, we can also go and hug them.

When it was my turn to share, I talked about the difference between this year and my TWLOHA years. Back then because of how the organization had grown, it was assumed that I must know a lot of stories. TWLOHA, which started with a single story, had heard from thousands of people and so I must have a few to share. Reporters and journalists often asked me, for their news reports and articles and podcasts. This was a reasonable question but honestly—beyond questions one might have about their question—I would typically go blank.

While I would like to think I knew some stories, it feels more accurate to say that I knew fractions of stories. Photographs and moments from two-minute conversations after events in 50 states and other countries. Folded letters found in pockets days later and then trying to remember the face of the person who handed it to me, and which city this took place in. Comments on Instagram and emails on behalf of friends of friends.

Now please don’t get me wrong. I’m not minimizing and this is not about a lack of care. Every single bit was meaningful. Every story is important. It’s just that I am just one person. And one person cannot honestly know thousands of people. Knowing is a thing that happens small. Truly knowing someone, truly knowing someone’s story, these are things that happen over time. Which I think means all the parties have to have it. Time to listen. Time to speak. Time for questions. Time to show up and then also meet again. Because a person feeling safe can take some time. And stories often take some time to tell. Safety creates space for vulnerability. Vulnerability leads to connection. Connection leads to knowing. And to people feeling known.

Back when I was known for other people’s stories, back when I was asked to give examples, the truth is I knew very few. Back when I was known for living a good one, and for encouraging half the planet to be known, very few people actually knew me.

I feel like that changed this year.

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