The Emotional Architect

I shuffled my Liked Songs on Spotify and the first thing that played was “The Optimist” by Hilary Duff.

I listened to Duff’s new album when it originally came out, but I think this was the first time I actually listened to the song. An optimist is someone who tends to expect positive outcomes and believes good things are most likely to happen than bad things. In “The Optimist,” Hilary Duff opens up about her complicated relationship with her father, the song reflects her longing for paternal validation and the emotional challenges of their estranged relationship. The track allowed me to connect with Duff on a much more personal level than before.

Listening to the song I thought of myself; an overthinking, anxious attachment, mid twenties guy who finds it hard to be vulnerable with those he loves. I overthink everything that goes on in my mind, since I was a child I recognized patterns and behaviors, as a result of my childhood trauma, having parents who were emotionally immature, I learned to notice little changes in behaviors like tone, sighs, facial expressions and more. “I was an emotional architect // who knew your dimensions more than you.” Duff sings.

I grew up hearing the phrase “don’t ask for help because people will throw it in your face.” I learned that asking for help or needing people was a habit I couldn’t attach myself to. Asking people for help was a sign of weakness when in reality it was the sign of pride. I was too prideful to ask for help because I thought it would come back to bite me, and because people actually don’t want to help me. I don’t want to be a burden or burden others with my issues and problems, but the truth is; people want to be there for you if they love you!

I was maybe six years old, sitting at the kitchen table with my math homework, stuck on a problem I couldn't figure out. I asked my dad for help. I don't remember his exact words, just his tone, the frustration in it, like not knowing the answer was something I was doing wrong. I wanted to give up. He wouldn't let me. So I sat there, small and afraid of being wrong in front of him, until I got it. I don't remember if I ever got the problem right. I remember feeling dumb. And somewhere in that kitchen, at six years old, I made a decision I didn't know I was making: if something looks too hard, don't try because trying, and being wrong in front of someone, hurts more than not trying at all.

I really related to Duff when she sung the words; “I know a dirty little magic trick // to disappear and disconnect.” When I don’t know or understand myself on an emotional level, my favorite little dirty magic trick is to disappear and disconnect, it’s isolation. Which lies to me because I think isolating myself is befitting me when in reality it does the opposite. I quickly feel disconnected from those I love and feel unloved because I am choosing to disconnect.

“My door is open just in case // you don’t even have to say you’re sorry // I already forgive you for all of it.” This lyic hits the most because forgiveness is not linear, it is not a one time thing. You have to forgive someone every single day. Forgiving them once doesn’t undo the memory. It just means the memory doesn’t get the final word anymore. I am learning to forgive my parents, forgiving them because I realized that they were also living for the first time, it was their first time being parents and God only knows nobody is perfect on this earth. Yes they knew right from wrong, but they didn’t know how to raise a child.

I wrote this in my journal in 2024, about someone I had to forgive: "I don't know how to interact with him; is everything going to go back to normal?" That question, will it go back to normal, assumes forgiveness is supposed to erase what happened, restore things exactly as they were. But my faith taught me something different: forgive others the way you've been forgiven. Not because they earned it, not because things go back to normal, but because grace was never something I earned either. God didn't wait for me to have it together before extending it to me. So why would I wait for someone else to have it together before extending mine? I didn't know the answer back then. I know it now: our friendship is better than it's ever been, not because things went back to normal, but because we let them become something new.

Maybe that’s what being an optimist actually is: not expecting them to change, but refusing to let what they didn’t give me decide who I become.