(Thread) Hey there: it's the last day of #Pride Month, 50 years after #Stonewall, and there's something I'd like to share. This month has been extremely hard, and today seems appropriate for something I've been scared to do for far too long.

I think a lot about how @BreneBrown defines shame: "the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging – something we've experienced, done, or failed to do makes us unworthy of connection."

Hosting @1A has brought me into the lives of millions of people. I've been honored to meet lots of our fans, many of whom praise me and the work we do. I'm grateful for that, but it's had an unintended side effect that's forced me to reexamine how I live my life.

One thing I've had to get used to is the fact that many people are shocked that I'm a big, tall, gay black man with muscles and a Mohawk. Not the @NPR stereotype at all! And my job comes with enormous reputational pressure... to remain, as it's been put to me, "sterling."

Now, I ain't some Faberge egg. But when so many people expect so much from you, it can make the prospect of error or imperfection terrifying. My career has made me very afraid to smudge that egg, let alone chip it, and that's manifested in a simple but painful way.

And now that I have your attention... here's the story.

Last fall I was with a friend at a gay bar here in DC. We were on the roof deck with our shirts off, talking and enjoying the warm night air. As we were standing there, a guy walked up to me and says that his friend is my biggest fan, and he asked me to go say hi to her.

I put on my shirt, walked over and said hello. Indeed, she was effusive with praise and appreciation: the whole thing took less than a minute, but she was very sweet. I walked back over to my friend and was about to take my shirt off...

...but I couldn't. Something clamped down on me and made it impossible for me to go back to my previous mode. Soon after, I couldn't bear to stay any longer, and we left.

A week ago I spent an afternoon in #Cincinnati on my way to the @AspenIdeas Festival. It happened to be the day of @CincinnatiPride, so I went downtown to check it out. It was a hot day, and although I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, I was in desperate need of ventilation.

As I considered stripping down a bit, a volunteer walked up to me and said, "Joshua Johnson?" I said yes, and he told me what a big fan he was. We talked briefly, and I moved on to let him get back to his booth. Again the heat got to me, and I was about to lift my shirt off...

...but I couldn't. That same something clamped down on me and made the stifling heat of propriety preferable to the cool comfort of vulnerability. Plus I suddenly felt a bolt of discomfort at being seen wearing my septum piercing.
So much for my clean-cut, public radio persona.

Yesterday I got back from Aspen. The shame I felt during Cincinnati Pride was bugging me, and so I had more reasons to not hide my physique. Fewer dress shirts, more polos. Fewer "dad jeans", more @LuckyBrand. Just to make myself own the body I chose for myself.

(SIDEBAR: are all hotel bathrooms designed by gay men for optimal selfies? Not that I'm complaining, of course, but... you know.)

Now, this may all sound very lame: whining because I'm just sooooo muscly and it's soooooo hard to have people stare at me, and woe is me for being cursed with such a "GAW-jus BAW-dy."
I know, I know. Cue the World's Tiniest Violin, right? Pathetic.

But the last few years have put more pressure on me to always be vigilant lest someone takes my picture. To always be ready to be noticed. To represent the show and the station and the network.
To never relax. Because someone is always just about to recognize me.

Now, neither @WAMU885 nor NPR has ever told me to be this vigilant. But my body expresses my sexuality, and although America is pretty comfortable with gays, the "sex" in homosexuality still causes a visceral reaction that many people don't know what to do with.

And I have felt that reaction SO MANY TIMES. At some point I figured I had to dilute myself to be safe for mass consumption. Wearing my Mohawk took getting over a ton of fear, as did buying my Harley, as does showing off my physique... because what if it makes you uncomfortable?

What if I don't match your expectations? What if it hurts my career? The whole thing made me feel like a coward, knowing that the exact image of my worst fear is right there in the mirror. And that image, like my fear, wasn't getting any smaller.

For some, Pride means marriage rights or legal equity. Far higher purposes than what I'm dealing with. But for me today, Pride just means taking my shirt off in public. It means not constantly editing myself. Leaving shame behind to (as Brene would say) "show up and be seen."

It means clawing through what closets me: that armor that's oh so easy to leave on and oh so scary to take off. That's the most dangerous kind of armor: the kind that spares you from rebuke, spoils you with rewards... and spears you with regret.

Whatever makes you strong, whatever makes you shine, whatever makes you soar... reveal it. Show up. Be seen. Be yourself. Be brave.
And, um, be gentle with me. I'm new to this whole "loving myself unconditionally" thing, but hey: better late than never.

By the way: as for that tattoo on my chest, Spike is my nickname. The one on my shoulder is an African symbol for creativity. And the septum ring... well, I just liked it. Want a bigger gauge, though.
Yes, there are stories behind all of them... but that's for another day.

Thanks for reading. Happy #Pride, and may you always feel safe in your skin. (/Thread)