Who You are Alone and with Others

Who we are when we are alone is often different than who we are with others. Sometimes very little, sometimes dramatically so. There is a person you can be only in relationship, not by yourself alone. Therefore, when you are unable—or unwilling—to enter into a relationship, you are exiling yourself from who you could be in that relationship.

Sometimes, however, we like who we are when we are alone better than who we are or can unfortunately become in relationship. I remember the man I counseled years ago who had this vexing problem: he was comfortable with himself when he was alone, but he had a host of difficulties emerge when he was with other people. He was attempting to figure out what the problem was, either with him or with others—or in some combination thereof. It turned out he liked himself the way he was, but he didn’t like to be told “no,” or to have his wishes deflected or denied. This guy was more willful than willing in relationships. No wonder his friendships didn’t last; people got tired of his stubborn self-centeredness.

One way to gauge the health of a love relationship is whether you feel better about yourself in it than out of it. Does the relationship free you to be you or bind you in unfreedom? Is it energy-producing or energy-depleting? Frederick Buechner, says this about marriage: “A marriage made in heaven is one where a man and a woman become more richly themselves together than the chances are either of them could ever have managed to become alone.”

We become more richly ourselves in a functioning love relationship than the chances are we ever could have become on our own. Therefore, people without healthy love relationships cannot become who they are capable of becoming—with others. They are, so to speak, on the outside of their potential lives looking in.

I remember a short-lived experience of becoming more richly myself with newfound friends than I can be alone. It happened at the week-long Oxford Round Table, at Oxford University in England. Some intense friendships quickly blossomed, and I became known even to myself in some new ways. I was myself, of course, yet others saw me in some new, affirming contexts. I liked who I was in these relationships, as did others like who they were. That is at the heart of real friendship: not merely liking the other, but also who you become with the other.

One particular friendship from Oxford stands above the others. It was with an Episcopal priest from New York State. We happened to connect at lunch on the first day of the event. We quickly discovered we were on the same spiritual wavelength. It got better: he graduated from Drake University at the same time I did. We were members of adjoining fraternities; we sang in our respective fraternity choirs at competitions. Yet we never met during those years. He was like a long-lost spiritual brother; I treasure the memory of our time together.

The conference ended too quickly. My new friend and I went back to our parishes a thousand miles apart. We occasionally e-mail back and forth. I look forward to seeing him again, so we can be who we are with each other, as well as for each other.