David McElroy

We spend much of our lives hiding from each other — and then we wonder why nobody knows us.

We grow up in a culture that teaches us to project just the right image. If we wear the right clothes, drive the right car, live in the right house and have the right job, we will finally be accepted. We can stay inside our suit of armor but still have people see how perfect our facade looks.

But when we do that, we still feel empty and alone. So we harden ourselves and try to prevent feeling anything. If we’ll just double down on success and looking great, we will finally be enough one day. That’s what we hope.

Authenticity is rare today. So when we find someone who feels like the “real deal,” we’re drawn to him or her, even if we can’t quite understand why.

We are so accustomed to seeing facades — shells that protect fragile hearts that have been repressed — that we are shocked when someone is authentic and expresses truth in a way that makes a voice inside us say, “I thought I was the only one who felt that way!”

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Have you ever found the love you thought you wanted but then lost the relationship because you picked it apart — and ultimately lost the love — because the other person wasn’t perfect? We do that because we get comfortable having something we wanted and then we start demanding more. We refuse to get clear about which things matter and which things don’t, so we give up the things that really matter because of a pointless pursuit of achieving the perfect life that our ego wants.

(The episode originally planned for this week has been moved to next week. I was too sick to record a new episode this week, so I used something for this week which I had already recorded.)

Preview of new week’s show: If love is so great, then why do some of our worst hurts come from our romantic relationships? Why is it that some people are hurt so badly by lost love — or by relationships they should leave, relationships that are supposed to bring them joy — that they harden their hearts and swear they’ll never love again?

It’s because counterfeit love feels just like the real thing — at first.

Love is the most powerful and healing force the world has ever known, but its closest counterfeit might be the most destructive force we encounter. We’re going to talk about how we keep failing into those painful and destructive patterns, next week on Love and Hope.

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Hank Williams is an unlikely choice as a potential role model for me.

He was a singer and songwriter, but I’ve never had the least bit of musical talent. He was closely identified with country music, which I grew up hating. He was a hard-drinking man who was closely identified with the honky-tonks that I’ve always found distasteful.

I grew up hearing about Williams and his music, though. My father used to sing some of Williams’ old songs and I was struck by how emotional and authentic they sounded. (Williams had been popular when my father was in high school and college.) That didn’t seem like country music to me. It just seemed like the music of loneliness and heartbreak and redemption.

I haven’t given much thought to Williams and his music over the years, but I’ve been watching the Ken Burns documentary “Country Music” in the last few days. As I’ve come to understand more about this Alabama musician who’s been called the Hillbilly Shakespeare, it stirred something in my soul that I rarely allow myself to look at anymore.

And I couldn’t help admitting — quietly, where no one could hear — that I still want to be a star.

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