I always cringed at that one character from “Mean Girls.”

She has 2 lines. Yet, you’ll know exactly who I’m talking about.

“I wish I could make a cake out of rainbows and smiles, and we could all eat it and be happy.”

“She doesn’t even go here!”

“Do you even go to this school?”

“No, I just have a lot of feelings.”

I just have a lot of feelings.

My astrological sign is Pisces. My enneagram type is 4. My Myers-Briggs type is ENFP. On the Internet, this means that every meme about my “type,” jokes about crying too much, falling in love too fast, being dreamy, insensible, moody, flaky, inconsistent. I cringe at these memes like I cringe at that girl; sunshine and rainbows? Crying at every small thing? Ugh, eat glass.

I got a master’s degree by 24, with a 4.0 GPA thankyouverymuch. I worked multiple jobs to stay afloat during both college and grad school. I snuck in extracurriculars, 2 unnecessary but rewarding theses, a powerful baking habit, and maintained an active social life during this time. Giving in to the inner turmoil I often felt was a luxury I simply did not have time to indulge.

Deep down inside, I cringe at cake-and-rainbows girl, because that is who I am. Who I have always been. I’ve gotten extremely good at covering it up (or “masking” in the parlance of mental health professionals). In college, when the woman hired to replace me at an emotionally draining job had to duck into the bathroom to cry what felt like every half hour or so, I will shamefacedly admit that I thought she might be too weak to hack it (she turned out to be wonderful, by the way). I could stare down the women with more money and power, shaming me for being young, poor, and working, why couldn’t she?

I have never been able to put the mirror squarely up to my face and admit that it is who I am. I am equally skilled at hiding it from others. Even my own therapist has been baffled by the results of my personality examinations. “But you’re so analytical” “methodical” “cerebral.” A professor I love dearly once told me I was too smart to be a performer; too in my head, more like.

I don’t say this to come off as “edgy” or “unique” (though as a 4, anyone who studies the enneagram will know we LIVE for feeling edgy). I don’t want to brag about how smart or competent I am, since I feel like neither of those things. I have simply spent my whole life covering up my very powerful feelings of connection to love, beauty, nature, slowness, and peace. Because all my life, despite the best efforts of those around me who know better, I was taught to value the opposite of those things.

The messaging we get from society about compassion and empathy is, to be blunt, fucked.

I grew up going to church, an activity that requires a weekly subjugation to pleas. Pleas to be kinder, more compassionate, welcoming, generous. The surface level messaging of both church and school was this: kindness, please. Don’t be a bully. Treat people fairly. We want big, open hearts, and big open arms.

But that was never the underlying message.

The underlying message – the real message – was: “being nice is a waste of time.” Crying slows you down. Emotions cloud your judgment and reason. Emotional people are, therefore, not to be trusted. Who gives a crap about the poignant image of Jesus’ mother weeping at his feet when you are competing for the most A.R. points? I heard many times, verbatim and not in jest, the argument that women should not be in positions of power because we are, “too emotional.”

I remember hearing the term, “bleeding heart liberal” being thrown around like a slur, and also not quite understanding why exactly it was a slur. These words were spoken by the same community and religious leaders imploring us to show more mercy, more compassion, and yet somehow when it came to living life, that wasn’t a point of view they were willing to entertain.

This dichotomy has always been at its sharpest in my relationship to music. Growing up, I was told more times than I can count that I was, “going places” with music. That I could really “be something.” Clearly, the deep emotional connection I felt with music was seen and felt by more than just me; audience members, parents, even total strangers could feel it, too.

And yet, the farther I got into my musical education, the more emotion was stripped from it. What took its place was perfection: perfect vowels, perfect intonation, perfect interpretation. Classmates of mine would listen to a Maria Callas recording riddled with very human errors, extolling its virtues and vulnerabilities, and then turn around and lambast their colleagues for anything less than perfection. They could not see that the very humanity seeping through is what make people love Callas so much.

Even outside of my education, the first question I get from strangers when I tell them I am a singer is, “what do you want to do with that? Teach?” As if there is no way I could possibly sustain myself in any sort of meaningful way being, “just” a singer. As if that very optometrist, mechanic, whomever, did not find daily solace in a favorite artist whose talent and motivations were met with the same line of questioning.

And so, through all of this messaging, I learned that the awe I felt looking at a sunset should be tamped down as far as it could go. I could never let anyone see me get teary at “What a Wonderful World” – a cheesy, reductionist, foolishly optimistic tune. It’s not useful. And if I indulge in something that isn’t useful, then, by extension, I am also not useful. And useless is the worst thing you can be.

But truthfully, I’ve never been able to shake it, really. I’ve always felt things deeply whether I wanted to or not, and recently, it’s all come to a head.

The weight we are all asked to carry every day, the weight of finding a way to be okay when it feels like the world is raining fire down upon us, is finally cracking me. I find myself crying more easily, and often. At videos of my niece from my sister. At cheesy songs I’ve always loved, and am finally admitting back into my heart. At learning about a new glass ceiling being shattered, a new bridge being crossed. I cry and smile and hurt for others and wonder too deeply and feel.

Here is the bare truth that no one ever wants to think about: everything we do is tinged with emotion. Every decision. Every purchase. Every action. Even sociopaths and psychopaths are motivated by more than pure logic (for truly, is pure self-gratification not an emotion?). I worked in marketing and was a musician. I know how powerfully playing with the emotions of others can benefit us. Ironically, those around us who claim to be the most driven by logic and reasoning tend to be the most driven by emotion (Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame comes to mind).

I don’t want (or need) everyone to be as tender as I am. One of my very favorite inner activities is to muse on the great diversity of thought and personality around me. But I ask you: what is so wrong with being emotional?