Faced with having to write this column for the second time, I momentarily indulged in the following thoughts…I'm the token childless woman here. What could I possibly have to say of relevance to these women? Then I caught myself. I knew better than to wander into the barren terrain of the outsider.

That's what I call her: the outsider. She's an internal adversary who would like nothing more than to manage all my interactions with people and life in the most fearful and confining of ways. She does this by being simultaneously prideful and self-critical. Her aim is separation. She thinks avoiding real contact is the path to freedom. Freedom from embarrassment, criticism, failure, rejection, etc. She's a tough cookie, my outsider, but she is no match for the truth. And the truth is I'm not interested in a life of separation. This I've learned through much trial and error. In spite of her best efforts to keep us "safe," I know my life gets juicier and more expansive the more I open myself to people and possibilities. Real contact is exactly where freedom lies, and the cost of admission is trust. But there are always dark corners, and I have played plenty of hide and seek over the years.

Growing up, my father's government job had our family switching states, houses, and schools with some regularity. I was the "new kid" in grades four, five, six, seven, and nine. Over the course of these years, I became oddly accustomed to feeling like an outsider. A shy spectator, surveying my environment and wondering where I might eventually fit in. Yet, when I think back on that time, it isn't the awkward cafeteria lunches spent alone I most remember. It's the thrill of being discovered by someone new. Of no longer tiptoeing anonymously through my days. It's an uncanny feeling of surprise, relief, and pleasure when you recognize a stranger is your friend. I wasn't conscious of it then, but as each new friendship burst open in an instinctive rush of female bonding over boys, breasts, makeup, and family skeletons, I was being taught the power of connection.

As I got older, I juggled a combination of conflicting beliefs. I was the girl in hiding, afraid of criticism and unsure of herself, but I was also the girl who felt a bit wise and determined to somehow embrace intimacy. I spent most of my twenties chipping away at crystallized disappointments from childhood, and I began to recognize how guarded I had become. I was visiting a girlfriend one weekend and as we caught up with each other's lives over red wine, she started questioning me about a new relationship I was in. Privately, I was plagued with doubts about it, and her probing triggered my old response to go underground. She knew me well enough to recognize my emotional departure, and she met my perfunctory answers with, "Am I going to have to go in with the forceps again?"

I love this quote now, but at the time I felt foolish and stunted. I wanted to confide in her, but I was already judging myself and feared she would do the same. I was wrong, of course, but not trusting myself left little room to trust anything or anyone else. Being torn like that made my life feel stiff and foreign. I started to see my existence as an outsider was self-made, and I wanted out. I finally accepted how exhausting, lonely, and utterly useless it was to live according to the outsider's rules. I wasn't alone. A lot of my friends were tired, too. We were tired of hoarding insecurities and bad habits and trying to measure up. My journals were filled with worry, anxiety, and inventories of what was wrong with me. I knew all those negative messages were paralyzing me and realizing this was my first step to becoming an insider.

I slowly began to question my old outsider assumptions, like what kind of life it was okay to lead and what makes me happy. With each inch of self-acceptance I wrestled back from the outsider, I gained miles of interior space. I started to take risks, based on my heart's desires. I confessed my insecurities to reassuring friends. I relaxed more and did nice things for myself. I got therapy and changed careers. The more I came out of hiding, the more vulnerable I felt, and ironically, the more connected. My willingness to trust myself put me back inside life. I relearned the lessons I had been graced with as a girl. The outsider whispers in all our ears, and we silence her when we listen to our real voices.

As an adult, all the stakes are higher. My desire for relationship and need for self-possession are more finely etched. As if to keep pace, the outsider's tactics get more desperate and her vision of disaster more devastating. But her truth isn't my truth. I now try to see her for what she is: a reminder of how freeing it is to be myself. How sweet it is to be let into someone's personal world. My most satisfying relationships foster a mutual expectation and desire for sharing, and I've been rescued many times by people whose capacity for intimacy showed me the possibilities.

I have been coaxed out of hiding by my stronger desire to connect. But I'm forever making my way on this path. The other evening over dinner, a kind-hearted and perceptive man I've recently met chided me for being a bit cagey. Damn! There she was, caught in the act. But that's okay, too. My outsider is part of me, and I would rather her exist in the light than the shadow. I would rather see the cages and forceps than be caught in them. If intimacy is a destination, then I feel like I've climbed the steps to that temple a million times and wandered the graveyard out back like a ghost. And I'm still committed to getting inside.