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Letting People In

From Being Vulnerable
Revision as of 16:42, 1 January 2026 by Maintenance script (talk | contribs) (Imported by wiki-farm MCP (writer: Unknown))
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The Cost of Letting People In

Here’s what I know after 78 years: letting people in costs more than you think. Not in money. In something quieter, harder to measure. It costs the illusion of safety you built with walls.

Back in my 40s, after the last gig, the last paycheck, the last friend who stayed… I learned the cost of not letting anyone in. I played my drums in a dark room, just me and the echo. The walls were thick. Safe. But empty. Like a solo without a band. You learn to play the rest notes too, kid—those spaces between the beats. That’s where the real music lives. And that’s where I was missing it.

When I finally cracked open that door again—after the long, slow work of getting clean—it wasn’t easy. It cost me. It cost me the easy lie that I didn’t need anyone. It cost me the peace of being alone, even when it was lonely. I had to risk the pain of being seen, truly seen, with all my cracks. I had to risk the chance they’d walk away. I had to risk me walking away from them, because I was still learning how to stay.

What did I gain? My grandkids. Not just their faces, but their trust. The way my granddaughter runs to me when she’s scared. The quiet understanding with my daughter after all those years. The deep, slow rhythm of a family that chose to stay, even when I stumbled. That’s the real music. Not the flashy solo, but the steady groove holding it all together.

What did I give up? The luxury of being untouchable. The easy comfort of never having to explain why I flinched at a raised voice. The fantasy that I could handle everything alone. It wasn’t a loss I mourned. It was a cage I finally stopped building.

Was it worth it? Kid, look at me. I’m 78. I’ve got six grandkids who call me Pop. I’ve got a wife who still laughs at my terrible jokes. I’ve got a life that’s not perfect, but it’s real. The cost was real. The gain? It’s the only thing that feels like home now. You don’t get to choose the cost of connection. You just learn to play the rest notes, and trust the band will be there when you need them.

— Roger Jackson, still playing