Choosing Honesty

When Honesty Backfired (And I Became the Punchline)

So, last month, I did something really stupid. Something I’d read about in a self-help book that said, "Just be real, people will connect." Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud: sometimes, being brutally honest in front of 50 strangers is like handing them a live grenade and saying, "Here, hold this!" Without the safety pin.

I’d been wrestling with my anxiety for weeks—classic "I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine" spiral. So, I decided to own it on stage. Not the usual "I’m so anxious I forgot my lines" joke. No. I went full, raw, "My brain is a panic attack with a side of existential dread" monologue. I told them how I’d canceled a date because my heart was pounding like a drum solo, how I’d stared at the ceiling for three hours convinced I’d forgotten to pay rent (I hadn’t). I was so proud of my "honesty."

The room went quiet. Not the warm, thoughtful quiet of a shared moment. The cringe quiet. The kind where you can hear a single cough echo like a gunshot. People shifted in their seats. One guy actually checked his phone. I’d aimed for connection, but I’d accidentally handed them a bucket of my own emotional sewage and said, "Enjoy the smell!"

Anyway, that’s my trauma response: when I try to be "deep," I just make everyone uncomfortable. The aftermath? I sat in my car for 20 minutes, crying because I’d failed at the one thing I thought I was good at—making people laugh while being real. I felt like a fraud. Like I’d taken my mental health struggles and turned them into a cringe-worthy performance art piece.

What did I learn? Not that honesty is bad. Duh. The real lesson? Honesty without context or care is just dumping your pain on someone else’s lap. It’s not vulnerability—it’s a tantrum. You can’t just say, "My brain is broken," and expect the audience to magically understand. You have to build the bridge to that place. Maybe with a little humor first, so they’re not bracing for a lecture.

I’m still learning. But next time I try to be "real," I’ll remember: honesty needs a seatbelt. And maybe a little less sewage.

— Sheila Bishop, laughing so I don't cry