I keep bursting into tears in public, but there’s a good reason for it

Recently, I burst into tears in public. I was at my daughter’s singing recital, a wholesome evening of soloists from years 7 to 12, none of whom I knew, all of whom I smiled encouragingly at as you would someone awaiting open-heart surgery.

It was our Willow’s first-ever performance, so it would be fair to assume I wept out of parental pride, joy and relief that she made it through without vomiting from nerves right there at the front of the school chapel.

I’ve had enough years fighting back the tears to now know most people aren’t as watery.Credit: ISTOCK

No. To my horror, I spontaneously dissolved into tears long before she hit the stage – about two soloists in. And after rallying a bit, again at soloists number five and number eight. By the time soloist number 12 belted out a rendition of Landslide – a 16-year-old singing, “I’ve been ‘faid of changin’, ’cause I’ve built my life around you” – I mean, my heart. I was a blubbery mess.

Which I’m aware is considered by most as embarrassing, uncomfortable and well, a lot. I’m a lot. People have told me so.

But I couldn’t help it. I was just so deeply moved by the pure courage of these girls. To stand alone and vulnerable, holding their space and stillness, and bravely share their voice – whether big and brassy or so soft our ears had to reach for the notes. The fearlessness of it undid me. I felt as though I could see into each girl’s lion-hearted potential, her dreams and hopes and future opening up before me.

Either that or I was tired, menopausal, overworked and highly strung. That’s probably a given.

I am someone who feels feelings deeply. I’m weepy like some people are clumsy. It doesn’t take much to set me off.

JO STANLEY

I also am someone who feels feelings deeply. I’m weepy like some people are clumsy. It doesn’t take much to set me off. Other reasons I’ve cried in public recently include grandparents with their grandkids on school holiday outings: both the easy, relaxed, hanging out nanna and pop, and the awkward, we love these kids but don’t know how to connect kind of grandparents.

Or there were the three little kids holding up a “Go Mum, we love you!” sign at the Melbourne Marathon.

And an elderly dog painfully, slowly following his owner around the block, each step an act of will and devotion. The stoicism of that dog and knowing that soon his family would need to say goodbye to him. I mean, how could you not cry at that? Are you dead inside?

I’ve had enough years fighting back the tears to now know most people aren’t as watery. I’ve wondered if I am a Highly Sensitive Person (self-diagnosed), or the product of childhood trauma (who isn’t?), or just generally more melancholy than others (I do love poetry).

It’s OK though, because I laugh as much as I cry. And actually, I consider it a superpower.

Human connectedness is one of the greatest contributors to resilience, and relationships are built on emotional availability. Consider the public spaces in which it’s OK to cry. A dark cinema and a sad movie. A collective howl at a loved one’s memorial. The birth of a child. Airport farewells. Each deeply connecting moments in which the poor tender hearts within them are strengthened, supported, uplifted through the sharing of tears.

I lean in hard to all these events, although I have to admit I’m yet to have an airport farewell. But recently, I sobbed on my couch because it occurred to me my daughter will at some point head off on a gap year. Literally inconsolable – at the thought.

She was typically compassionate: “Dad, Mum’s crying again,” said like you’d say, “Dad, we’re out of milk.” Honestly, it can’t be easy living with me. But that’s how normalised crying is in our family.

I welcome the emotional discomfort with no judgment and highly absorbent shoulders. I’m here for it all: the delicate sniffles, the ugly cries, the silent tear, the sob. The world is so full of sadness and courage and beauty and love, it astounds me that more people aren’t walking around openly weeping.

And a part of me wishes we were. Vulnerability invites authenticity and trust. Compassion and empathy allow us to truly see others as they really are, to reinforce their inherent worth – and most importantly lead us to find self-acceptance as well.

Acceptance of even the inconveniently, over the top, emotional part. I don’t think I could take on life’s challenges and changes without it.

So back to the singing recital and our brave soprano. Of course, Willow’s solo led to a crescendo of my own snotty performance, which I did my best to contain lest it turn into a duet. But as a tissue was pressed into my hand from an equally tear-stained mother at the end of our pew, it was heart-warming to learn that I wasn’t alone.

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