Smoke & Mirrors
Her smoke-and-mirrors show wasn’t sleight of hand or a trick she played on people. It was simply the only way she knew how to be. Shape-shifting came naturally. She just wanted to be liked, to fit in.
And she did.
As a child, she tried on different roles until she found one that made her parents smile, and she kept that one for them. She floated through the house as if she didn’t have a care in the world - she wanted them to be happy, didn’t want them to worry about her. She just wanted them to love her.
And they did.
Meet Morgan, everyone loves Morgan. She has spent a lifetime shape-shifting to fit in, and smoothing her edges to keep others comfortable. She has done it so well, she’s forgotten who she is beneath it all.
It’s Not Easy Being Easy
I was describing these large black-and-white prints I’d seen of jazz legends like Count Basie and Miles Davis that I thought we should hang in the hallway of our new house. He looked at me, puzzled, and said “Why would we put that on our walls? I’ve never once heard you listen to Count Basie.” I don’t remember what was exactly said next or how it escalated, but one sentence lodged itself in my chest:
“You’re not passionate about anything.”
It stung. I got defensive. We argued. The hallway stayed bare.
Looking back, my then-husband wasn’t wrong. I’d never listened to Count Basie, and I couldn’t name a single thing I was passionate enough about to say, put this on our wall. I had opinions, I had depth - but I lacked conviction. In that moment, I felt exposed, like a dirty little secret had been revealed - a secret I didn’t know I had. I couldn’t think of one obsession I’d ever claimed purely for myself; I was far better at curating other people’s tastes than cultivating my own. I tried to recall something I had loved or felt innately good at, but kept coming up empty. As a child, I went with my cousins into their clubs and followed my friends into their activities—and somewhere along the way, I mastered the art of living other people’s lives instead of daring to live my own.
I was the easy child in my family – agreeable and low-maintenance. I nodded when my mom said that Dad should ease up on the drinks, then laughed with Dad when he rolled his eyes at her concern. When things got tense, I entertained with magic tricks and hairbrush concerts. Whatever they needed, I slipped into it - chameleon, comic relief, confidante. Not strategy. Pure instinct.
I had figured out our home needed shiny, happy people. So, I smiled easily. Laughed often. Made things light when they weren’t. I wasn’t being fake - I wanted acceptance. People like shiny, happy people. They invite them in. They don’t push them away.
That’s the shadow side of being “the easy one”: You make life easier for everyone else, but over time, you lose sight of what’s true for you. And then one day, someone will ask what you love. What lights you up? What you’re passionate about. And you’ll stand in a hallway, surrounded by blank walls, with nothing to hang but a question mark.