The Chewed Side of the Apple

When I think about elementary school, I mostly think about how much I despised spelling tests. I did not like the lists. I did not like studying them. I did not like taking the tests. I really did not like getting them back with red marks and failing grades.

I remember one day I did not bring my spelling list back to school. That angered my teacher. She pointed at me in front of the class and said, loudly, “You are a BABY!” Then she picked up the chalk and wrote B. A. B. Y. in big letters on the board. Then she sent me to the principal’s office to call my mother and have her bring the list.

I made it to the office. I picked up the phone. Then I started crying. I do not remember the rest of that day. Somehow, I never forgot how to spell “baby.”

That scene got into my head and stayed there for decades. I came to believe that I was broken in some basic way. Something was wrong inside me, and I lived in fear that other people would figure it out. I did not walk into rooms ready to be there. I walked in already protecting myself. I wanted to make sure no one discovered the flaw I was sure I had.

Years later I saw a picture that named this. It was an apple with one side chewed. A mirror sat beside it. From the mirror’s angle, the apple looked whole. I spent years trying to keep people looking at the good side. I did not want anyone to see the chewed side. The strange part is that I could not have told you what the chewed side even was. If I had known, I would have tried to fix it.

Work felt like a long list of ways to be found out. My goal was to get through the day without being discovered. If I thought someone was unhappy with me, I went overboard to get them back to okay. People have a name for that now. They call it imposter syndrome. I just called it trying not to get caught.

One Sunday I went to Mass not long after foot surgery. That Sunday was Passion Sunday, the day the Church reads the story of Jesus’ suffering and death. People stand more than usual. Standing hurt. Sitting was better. I was on crutches. I could have sat the whole time. No one would have said a word. I stood anyway. I was afraid that sitting would make people look at me. I left Mass angry at the Church for making me stand. However, in reality, they did not make me stand. I made me stand. The worry about being seen had crowded out any chance of paying attention to God.

In Matthew chapter 13, in the parable of the sower, Jesus talks about seed that grows up among thorns. He says that is what happens when a person hears the word of God and then gets overwhelmed by ordinary, grinding worry — the kind that is mostly about how you look to other people. The plant is there. It just never bears fruit. The worry overtakes the space needed to live and thrive.

That is what it cost me to keep hiding the chewed side of the apple. I could spend a whole Mass, a whole meeting, a whole party managing who saw me. I would leave tired. I had nothing to show for it except the same fear I walked in with.

In my mid-thirties, counseling helped me see, in my head, that there was not some hidden, unknowable defect inside me. However, my heart was slower to truly believe that I didn’t actually have some terrible defect. When I thought people were getting close to the chewed side, the old fear still showed up. I needed a picture I could hold onto.

Here is the picture I used. A diamond ring does not lose its value if someone throws it in a drawer or even in a trash can. The ring remains valuable even if someone says it has no value. It does not depend on the person looking at it. I thought about various options that I could use for myself to know that I had value regardless of what others said about me. I settled on a certain kind of airplane. It was an airplane I loved, a small two-seat kit plane called an RV-8. It is not a perfect airplane. It is one I would enjoy flying. When the fear started to take over, I would tell myself, “Just be an RV-8.” In saying that, what I meant was this: stop spending the hour hiding. You already have worth, even if someone in the room believes otherwise.

The less time I spent wound up about being found out, the more I enjoyed ordinary life. Work. Gatherings. Family. I have lived both sides of this. I do not want to go back.

If you walk into rooms already protecting yourself, the next step is small. This week, stop hiding one chewed side. Sit when your foot hurts. Let someone see that you do not know the answer. Do not spend the hour making sure people only see the good side of the apple. The anxiety is not about the work. It is about being found out. You can put that project down for one hour and see what is left.

This is a pastoral reflection, not clinical care and not a substitute for it. If you or someone you love is in immediate danger, call 988 or local emergency services.

Drawn from a homily first preached in 2023