I’ve always maintained that people need people. There’s a reason isolation has been a torturer’s go-to for centuries, and mental and emotional isolation are no less damaging than physical. So I maintain that people need people.

We need people to hear us. We need people to soak us in, mull us around, and give us back to ourselves a little less broken than we started.

We want you to see our scars, know their worth, and ask for their stories. When you notice my fears, ask me why I’m afraid. When you notice my ghosts, ask me their names. When you notice my drive, ask me my dreams. And when you notice my scars, ask me what they mean.

And hear me when I answer. Hear me and give me your bandages, your remedies, your sympathies. Give of yourself to me, and I will give of myself to you, and at the end of it all, we will each have grown in a very small, very big, very real way.

So I write in the hope that I will be heard, but also in the hope that I will learn to hear. To really hear, I cannot be a mere sounding board, or an empty vessel into which you might pour your confessions. I must instead practice a conversational elasticity that is seldom seen nowadays. I must absorb, digest, interpret, and respond. I must take what burdens you have to give, and invite you to step into that vacated space, and so move forward. I must move people. I must do better, and so must you, and together, we can create a more connected, more empathetic, more beautiful world. Together, we can move people. Together, we can move the world.