Naked Hearted: How Bullshit, Parkinson's and John Lennon Changed My Life

By Lois KELLY

In a world where we present our filtered “best selves” online and in real life, business maverick Lois Kelly is calling “bullshit.” In her debut collection of personal essays, Lois’ tender, revelatory, and hilarious stories show us how to stop posturing, accept vulnerability and allow our lies to be filled with wondrous, naked-hearted love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996313711

Lois KELLY

Lois Kelly, an author and marketing strategist, counsels executives in large corporations like FedEx, SAP, HP, Fidelity Investments, Dunkin' Donuts, TJ Maxx, SAS Institute, University of Massachusetts, The Conference Board, USAA, Sapient, Communispace, and many more. They hire Lois presumably for help on communicating change and mobilizing word of mouth marketing. The unstated, real reason they hire her is that they are rebels at work, looking for a rebel emeritus who can guide them in successfully shepherding their change agendas inside large, complex organizations – and outside to customers. Being a rebel can be dangerous, and they recognize the value of having an experienced guide.

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INTRODUCTION

I Call Bullshit

I’ve had ridiculous years before, but never a year of bullshit. Well, half a year to be more precise.

Here’s how all the bullshit started.

In June I was having dinner with a friend from college whom I hadn’t seen in thirty-six years, catching him up about my life and talking about all that I’ve done and accomplished.

Lois, stop the bullshit, he said.

What? Me?!

In other words, he felt that I was trying to impress him, which in truth may have been one of my defaults over the years. OK, it has been my default and a cover for insecurity, shame, and vulnerability. I never knew it was so obvious. (Or maybe it’s not, except to people who really know us.)

Being called on bullshit in June, I started to pay much closer attention to it in myself and others.

Bullshit, according to philosopher Harry Frankfurt of Princeton University, is a lot like humbug but simply a less polite word. Both words mean false talk or behavior, absent sense or meaning. In verb forms they mean to deceive.

I don’t think most people intend to deceive others. However, our society sees confidence and certainty as positive, desirable attributes. Most of us have bought into the belief that confident people are successful people. By confidence in this context I mean the Merriam-Webster definition: the quality or state of being certain: certitude .

We buy from confident sales people. We believe confident coaches, consultants, and thought leaders. We want to follow confident leaders. We glow when teachers tell us that our children exude confidence.

But how much of all that confidence is just a veneer over uncertainty? How much of it is faking it until you can make it? How much of it is bullshit, deceiving ourselves and others, and hoping to God that we can deliver on what we’re saying?

My hunch is quite a bit.

What if we revealed our dark sides?

So what might happen if we exposed more of our uncertainty and vulnerability? Would we have fewer friends? Would we be less successful at work? Would people not pay attention to our ideas? Would they judge us less competent?

Or might they like and trust us more because of our honesty?

Six months later in December I participated in an online writing program to help us creative types look at how we can lead a more authentically creative life.

One Saturday morning the following writing prompt came from Todd Kashdan, a psychology professor and coauthor of the book, The Upside of Your Dark Side: Why Being Your Whole Self—Not Just Your Good Self—Drives Success and Fulfillment:

The Upside of the Dark Side:

Which emotions do you feel most guilty about having? Afraid that others might find out? How could you spend this year trying to be open to the emotional window that allows you to be courageous?

How could you spend this year trying to be open to the emotional window that allows you to be courageous?

Whoa, Nellie. There’s no way I’m going to share my most guilty emotions publicly, I posted to the community Facebook page. Sorry, gang, I thought to myself. I like this community writing and sharing, but I’m not going there. I don’t do darkness. I’m the positive, optimistic chick. And, good grief, what would people think if they knew my real dark side?

Todd replied to my NO WAY! right away:

"Thank you for sharing this, Lois. Let me share two thoughts from the science:

Shared pain serves as social glue. And binds us into greater intimacy than almost anything else. Sharing our vulnerabilities is a sign of strength.

What we know is anxiety, sadness, anger, embarrassment, guilt, and boredom aren’t the problems. Our unwillingness to be in contact with these emotions and our unwillingness to listen to the information they provide is the problem. What if we made space for these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings and still moved in the direction of what matters most? What are our intuitive emotional reactions telling us that we can learn from?

You’ll be amazed at what happens when you are open to them. What if our deep dark secrets are the same as everyone else’s?"

Getting real is really hard

So after a few hours, I wrote my Dark Side story, shared it with the group, and turned off the computer. (It is The Other Halves story in the Illness section of this book.)

You can watch and praise Brené Brown’s TED Talk on vulnerability, but to lay bare your vulnerabilities is Really. Hard. Scary. Work. That’s why most people avoid it like an IRS audit.

But guess what? Nothing bad happened when I posted my story. Only good. Revealing my soul helped people see the real me. Instead of judgment, I received encouragement, compassion, and a whole lot of love from people I have never met. I’ve also seen some new light in my dark places.

All of this leads me to consider the following questions:

How can I show up more as my real self, making it safe for other people to come as they are?

How can I pay as much attention to the information from people’s emotions as I do to research data?

How can I more regularly call bullshit and invite people into honest conversations that are needed for solving important problems?

So I’m calling my own bullshit and sharing my stories in hopes that they help you find the courage to share yours, too. As I write these words I think, Maybe you’re sharing a little too much here. You had fun writing these stories, but file them away.

Then my imaginary fairy soul sisters say, Stories have a healing magic, connecting us with one another as real, raw, and wonderful human beings. Don’t be afraid. Set the stories free. They will help you grow, heal, and become a more empathetic and kind citizen of our world. They will inspire your sons and the sons and daughters you never had to take chances and be ready for the unexpected in life, both the bad and especially the good. To show up as themselves and know that they are enough.

I never argue with those soul sisters. They are always right.

So here’s to more of us sharing more of us. To telling stories that reveal our naked-hearted selves and help us have conversations that help us heal, learn, love, and laugh.

MEN

Mick Goon

My grandfather, whom I called Da, told Nanie, aka Rita, that he was taking me bowling. For an eight-year-old I was a pretty good candlepin bowler and knew how to keep score of the strikes and spares. I liked using the stubby pencil with no eraser on top to make the slash mark for spares while Da sat back, drinking beer from bottles with long necks and silver labels.

But we didn’t actually go bowling on this sunny Saturday morning in April 1963. Instead, Da drove us past the falling-down slum bars of Magoun Square in the working-class city of Somerville, just three miles from Boston, to a bar on Broadway Street.

The On the Hill Tavern, at the intersection of the busy Broadway and Medford Streets, was a one-story, white-brick building with an awning above the door. Fancy dancy. It wasn’t like the bars in nearby Magoun Square, which wasn’t really a square, just a few blocks of a narrow city street where everyone looked tired and sad and wore their olive-green work clothes even on Saturdays. It was creepy, even the name, which was pronounced like Mick Goon.

Da held my hand as we walked into the bar. Lew, how ya doing, pal? the bartender said. At first I couldn’t see, because it was so dark; the only light came from the red-neon Narragansett Beer signs in the two small windows and the little lights over the tiny jukeboxes mounted next to each booth. Most of the windows had been covered up with white bricks.

We never sat at the booths, always at the bar.

Da was drinking boilermakers this morning, not just beer. A shot of whiskey for every beer. I knew what that meant.

He was trying to disappear early this weekend.

A shot of whiskey for every beer. I knew what that meant.

As I sat at the bar drinking my Shirley Temple and eating the extra maraschino cherries, I worried what would happen if my mother found out that Da took me to bars. I worried that my grandparents would fight later in the day or do something worse. I worried that Da might forget to take me to