There’s that word again.

Wait for it…

Crazy!

In other words, “Shhhhhh, be quieter, be more ladylike, man up, grow a pair, take it down a few notches, don’t show any emotions, and, god forbid, when you feel them, don’t talk about them.”

I have been called too many things to count in my lifetime, but you know what does not sting at all anymore? Crazy.

Everyone in history who ever did anything remotely outside of conformity and compliancy and the status quo of that particular era was once called crazy.

If experiencing trauma, depression, anxiety, and getting help is crazy—so be it. Or maybe refusing to acknowledge it, not seeking treatment, and remaining both sick and in denial is what’s crazy?

If owning the hell out of truth and standing on top of it is crazy—so be it. Or maybe keeping those secrets, pretending, lying to others, lying to yourself, and, yes, even lying for an abuser is what’s crazy?

If allowing yourself to feel that which is often perceived as negative, like fear or sadness, is crazy—so be it. Or maybe stuffing them all down by overworking, over-shopping, or Netflix binging to shut them all down is what’s crazy?

If choosing to no longer numb and hide from your past or present is crazy—so be it. Or maybe using too much alcohol, drugs, sex, video games, porn, food, or people-pleasing and approval seeking, to numb and hide it all away, is what’s crazy?

If being angry, and expressing it with words, using it as fuel, as a catalyst for change is crazy—so be it. Or maybe bottling all that anger and blowing up at your spouse, your kids, your neighbor, your cashier, your waitress, the guy who cut you off in traffic is what’s crazy?

If climbing up tooth and nail from rock bottom is crazy—so be it. Or maybe sitting in your own sh*t, waiting for someone to come rescue you while you die of thirst when you have the tools in your own hands to try even just a little to climb is what’s crazy?

If airing my dirty laundry on Facebook is crazy—so be it. Or maybe photoshopping our lives, softening our lines, slimming our bodies, constantly changing the masks, and playing only the highlight reel is what’s crazy?

I assure you my laundry had to be sanitized in the boiling waters of discovery, put through the spin cycle of learning, baptized in the softener of grace, disinfected of the bacteria from shame, and bleached white as snow of my sin, with forgiveness.

You can call that crazy. However, I am simply a mirror, a reflection of others’ own stains, messes, suffering, that maybe you haven’t applied resolve to just yet, and perhaps that makes some uncomfortable.

Since when did discomfort become crazy?

What one might call crazy is what I call being authentic.

Crazy is simply a term used against anyone who has ever stood up for anything outside of what’s deemed normal or acceptable (whatever the hell that is).

Women in management—once thought to be crazy.

Integration over segregation—once thought to be crazy.

Divorce after a solemn vow of life—once thought to be crazy.

Men’s figure skating, skiing down a slippery mountain, walking a tight rope—all once thought to be crazy.

Crazy, as it turns out, has nothing to do with our inner turmoil and everything to do with the four walls that surround us.

What is normal in the bedroom would be considered crazy in the conference room.

What’s normal sitting at the dinner table in my home might be considered crazy in yours.

What’s normal in my neck of the woods might be considered crazy on the other side of the globe.

Because, truth be told, we have all, at some point, behaved in a way that in retrospect looks like a whole lot of what we label as crazy.

But what if that’s actually the norm—the normal conditions that come, part and parcel, with simply being human?

Crazy is only about our perception—and perceptions change, in proportion to our view.

Either everyone is crazy or no one is.

Because, as I see it, crazy is as crazy does.