The Intimacy of Transparency
When I have completed my job, I am accountable to others and report the results.
In the alcoholic home, I learned to hide everything. Feelings were dangerous. Money mistakes were shameful. Bad news meant punishment. So I became a vault—locked, secretive, self-contained. Independence wasn't strength; it was survival.
Concept Ten talks about reporting results in service work, but I'm applying it to marriage. "Here's what I spent. Here's what I'm feeling. Here's where I failed today." These sentences make my chest tighten. Transparency feels like handing someone ammunition.
But secrecy isn't intimacy—it's loneliness. I've confused self-protection with partnership. Every hidden bank statement, every swallowed emotion, every "I'm fine" when I'm not builds a wall between me and connection. I'm safe behind it, but I'm also alone.
Al-Anon is teaching me that reporting results isn't about accountability in the corporate sense—it's about the intimacy of being known. It's saying "Here is what I did today" without fear of retribution. It's the vulnerability of transparency, trusting that honesty won't be weaponized.
The shift is slow. Old habits of secrecy die hard. But occasionally, I practice: "I overspent today." "I'm struggling." "I need help." And the world doesn't end.
When I notice myself hiding something small (a purchase, a feeling, a mistake), I can pause and ask: Am I protecting myself or isolating myself? Can I practice transparency with one low-stakes truth today and notice what happens when I'm not hiding? What if reporting results is the intimacy I've been avoiding?
