(Photo source: Unsplash.com)

(Photo source: Unsplash.com)

Recently I was on a plane, reading a book, and I started crying.

I’m not much of a crier most of the time. I have my moments, of course, like anyone; usually in private. But I’m typically not the girl who cries in movie theaters or over hallmark commercials or even (in public) over well-written books.

So of course it came as a huge surprise on the plane when the tears began to come and I realized, no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be able to will them away.

Oh no, not this now, I thought to myself.

But even as the thought entered my brain, I felt the first hot drop of salty water make a break for it and come streaming down my face. I put my head down, blinked a few times, hoping that would be it and I could move on — but no such luck.

In fact, the harder I tried to blink them back, the more persistently they pushed their way out of my eyelids and spilled down my cheeks.
You can imagine the awkward throat-clearing that followed from the man to my right, in 38C.

I hung my head in shame. He must think I’m crazy, I thought to myself. I pictured myself turning toward him, holding up the cover of the book and saying, between stilted breaths, and with my squeaky, crying voice:

“I’m sorry sir, it’s just a really good book!”

But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I just leaned my head back against the seat and let the tears flow. And you know what I decided while I was crying? I decided it’s okay. It’s okay if he thinks I’m crazy; and it’s okay if you think I’m crazy.

I’d rather be crazy.

I’d rather be crazy and vulnerable than to be the kind of person who can’t cry when the situation calls for it, or who won’t let herself feel anything at all.

I’ve been that girl. And I don’t miss her.


I’ve spent so much time waiting, wasted so many years wishing for life to happen to me, instead of taking responsibility to make it happen myself.


I’ve spent so much time waiting, wasted so many years wishing for life to happen to me, instead of taking responsibility to make it happen myself.

I don’t want to be that girl anymore—that bored girl, that sad girl.

I’d rather be this girl, the girl who is committed to forgive, and love, and move, and act, and let go, push forward and believe even when it doesn’t make sense; even if it means being disappointed, even if it means being hurt, again and again.

I’d rather swing for the fences.

I’d rather be crazy.

I’d rather give to much than too little.

Too much love, too much money, too much of my time.

I’d rather be crazy.


I’d rather give to much than too little.


I’ve spent most of my life trying to make sure people didn’t think I was crazy. But recently everything is changing. Recently I think to myself, while crying over a book on an airplane, who cares what the guy in 38C thinks anyway?

After all, crazy might not be so bad after all.

This blog post originally appeared on Storyline and was republished with permission.