Is it my Catholic upbringing that creates such weight around secrets? When we receive the Sacrament of Holy Communion, which usually happens at 7 or 8 years old, we’re given access to (actually, required to make use of) this handy tool for unburdening secrets: it’s called Confession. If we’ve secrets to get off our chests, like finding our dad’s private stash of Snickers bars and eating them one by one, or smoking our first cigarette, we can go into a private closet and speak to a priest, who keeps these secrets secret, even from our parents!

Still, we’re counseled to hide nothing, and dealt a religious education that heightens our sense of guilt. As a child, I had a hard time keeping secret the bad things I’d done, like the one and only time I tried to shoplift a pack of gum; I came clean to my parents in the checkout line, cracking under the moral strain of the attempted heist. When I grew older and less under the Church’s influence, I began to keep secret any actions beyond the parental pale: smoking pot, skipping school, and what I was doing with my boyfriend. I’d noted my parents had their secrets, too, and as a member of a family that avoided confrontation, I believed not sharing an offense was better than them having to deal with it. In a sense, I was doing us all a favor.

Joyful secrets are fun to keep, though challenging as I’m so eager to spill the beans. For my husband Jon’s retirement party, I created a themed t-shirt that involved discussion with multiple people, including his children. Everyone kept this a secret from Jon. Except me, who randomly blurted out different aspects of the project until little was secret except the final product, which he loved. Other happy secrets I’ve kept with more success: surprise parties for my mother’s 70th and 80th birthdays, surprise visits home to my parents, and my bridal gown, which I wanted Jon to see for the first time on our wedding day.

When I managed a bookstore, I was bound up by secrets. It was the expected burden of being a manager to be confided in by employees and my employer about issues invariably involving each other. I honored confidentiality while working to solve strife, but sometimes that kept me from having conversations that might have cleared the air. On a few occasions I felt attacked for a decision I’d made to resolve a dispute and watched, stunned, as those involved defended each other in public, despite the many ways they’d torn each other down in private. I couldn’t reveal the irony of what was happening, just had to swallow it like the bitter pill it was. I can now laugh at some of the more ridiculous “Et tu, Brute?” moments, but only because I’m looking at that scene from a distance.

I don’t like secrets kept from me that obscure the truth of a situation. I’d rather know a difficult reality than be kept in the dark. I remember that heart-stopping moment when I discovered a former partner was having an affair. I’d suspected something was up, and suffered this strange prickling sensation on my scalp whenever I discussed our strained relationship with my best friend. I found out the secret of the affair from the cuckolded husband, who called me repeatedly, leaving emotional messages on our answering machine about the infidelity. He even called my workplace to tell them about it. It was indescribably awful. I never picked up when he called; I was too in shock to talk to him, a stranger, but the soul-damage was done. Didn’t I merit a conversation before the affair started, so that I could exit our relationship with dignity? Apparently not, and the unveiling of this big secret was painful and humiliating.

It could be my history that makes me not keen on secrets. I prefer to be out with it, honest and straightforward, to lay my cards on the table, come what may. I’ve said things I wish I’d kept to myself, especially when my timing was off or I miscalculated the response. I have my regrets. Like when I recently told Jon, “I’m pretty sure, no, I know that I inadvertently topped the maple tree we planted when I was weed-eating the backyard.” I could easily have pinned that on a groundhog, but that would have been wrong. Despite what it sounds like, though, I’m very good at guarding other people’s secrets. I will not repeat your secret to anyone, even my husband, if you ask it of me. There are a few secrets I’ve held for decades, and will hold to the grave, because a friend or family member asked me never to share.

And that is what it is about secrets: they can be necessary, but they can also be a burden, a way not to move forward. Rather than keep the secret of your failing marriage, the words you wished you’d never said to or about someone, the thing you did that you’ve always felt bad about, the abuse you suffered but keep to yourself for fear of retaliation, the secrets that keep you up in the middle of the night—why not look at those things, pull them out of the confessional closet, and consider whether you can speak about them more openly so their energy moves on? I’m doing that more and more, and it feels good!

A Beautiful Stain by Diane

Parlor