I still remember what it tasted like — that first spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream melting on my tongue. It was the forbidden candy of the freezer. The apple Adam wasn’t supposed to bite into. But I bit anyway. And just like Adam, guilt showed up the second the flavor hit the back of my throat.
It was my favorite. Which somehow made it worse. Because it wasn’t even accidental — it was intentional. I knew I wasn’t supposed to eat it before dinner. I don’t even remember why I did it. Maybe I knew my parents would say no and I didn’t want to wait. Maybe I just wanted what I wanted. Maybe I didn’t care — until I did.
“I scraped the bowl clean and sat there with it empty in my hands, like a piece of evidence still warm from the scene of the crime.”
I felt sick with guilt. Not from the sugar, but from knowing I broke a rule. And the wild part is, I wasn’t even afraid of getting caught. I was afraid of myself — for knowing I did something I wasn’t supposed to, and trying to pretend I could make it disappear with a loophole.
So I walked up to my dad and asked him if I could have some ice cream.
Like it hadn’t already happened. Like permission granted after the fact would magically rewrite the timeline. I guess I thought if he said yes, I could let myself off the hook. But of course, he didn’t say yes. He said exactly what I knew he’d say: “Not before dinner.”
And that’s when it all kind of broke open. I blurted out the truth. That I already had some. That I was sorry. That I didn’t know why I did it but I did and now I felt awful. I couldn’t name the feelings at the time, but I felt them all — shame, guilt, fear, relief. It was a swirl I didn’t have the words for yet.
“I’ll never forget what he said next: ‘Thank you for being honest. Go have another bowl.’”
That second bowl of ice cream? It was exactly the same as the first, but it tasted completely different. Not because I got away with it — but because I didn’t. I told the truth, even when it didn’t help me. And I got rewarded for it. It was earned.
Honesty & The Price It Demands
Since then, I’ve lost a lot for being honest. I’ve been dumped, ghosted, fired, written off. I’ve had doors slammed in my face for handing someone my truth like a gift — heart first, unwrapped. And I still keep doing it.
Because I remember what that second bowl tasted like.
I’ve been told I’m not funny by people who once said they loved me. But if that’s true, why do I have friends who admit to wearing diapers when we hang out to give themselves the freedom to laugh so hard they pee themselves?
When I was a kid, teachers told me I didn’t ask enough questions. And years later, at a job I sincerely cared about, I was told I asked too many. Fired for it. Can you imagine? Spending your life trying to be small enough, curious enough, quiet enough — not too much, but not invisible — and still getting it wrong.
Connection, Chicken, and Mashed Potatoes
I think a lot of people misunderstand what expectations are. They hear them as demands or ultimatums. But really, they’re just truth. Just someone saying, “Hey, I’m hungry, and this is what fills me.”
It’s like being invited over for dinner. You ask what’s being served, and they say chicken and mashed potatoes. And you go, “Cool, I’m only in the mood for chicken tonight.” Then you get there and they’ve already set a plate, the food is right there, smells amazing, but suddenly you’re told you can’t eat any of it. Like — wait, what? Why did you invite me here hungry if you weren’t planning to feed me?
That’s what connection feels like at times.
People offer you something that looks like emotional intimacy, that smells like honesty, that sounds like care — but when you sit down, it’s all a setup. The table’s for show.
And sometimes, it’s even more confusing. Sometimes you say you only want chicken because you know too many sides will overwhelm you. And they say, “Sure, chicken only.” But when you arrive, the plate is overflowing. Not for your benefit, but theirs. Because it feels good to them to offer more, to give more — even if you didn’t ask for it. And then they look at you confused when you don’t eat. When you say, “This isn’t what I ordered.”
The Questions I Ask Now
So now, I ask questions. I check the temperature of the water before I dive in. Because I’ve been the person who saw a lake and dove in headfirst, only to find it freezing — and then got mad at the water for being too cold, instead of mad at myself for not even dipping a toe in first.
I’m not that person anymore. I still want to swim. I still crave connection. But I ask first. I ask what the temperature’s like. I ask how deep it is. I ask if the person swimming with me actually wants to be there, or if they’re just waving from the shore.
That’s what honesty has taught me.
That asking doesn’t ruin the magic. It creates it.
Because when I don’t ask, I build sandcastles. Beautiful ones. Detailed, delicate, full of possibility. I pretend the tide won’t come. I pretend the foundation isn’t shifting beneath me. And for a moment, it feels real. Like something I can live in.
But sandcastles are only ever meant to be temporary. That’s the illusion of permanence — mistaking something fragile for something safe, something fleeting for something earned. And every time the tide comes in, I’m reminded that silence doesn’t protect what I build — it washes it away.
“So I’d rather ask and be disappointed than stay silent and keep rebuilding on ground that was never meant to hold me.”
Because I know what it feels like to get that second bowl of ice cream. I know what it tastes like to be full — because I earned it.
And I know what it feels like to be left staring at an empty plate.
So if tonight feels like hunger — if it stings a little to sit with what’s missing — it’s only because I’ve learned how good it can feel to be full. And I’m not afraid to ask anymore. Not because I expect dessert. But because I finally know I’m worth feeding.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
When was the last time you chose honesty, even when it cost you? Do you remember what your “second bowl” tasted like? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
I think of all your writings that I’ve read, this one is my favorite. I know that guilt and shame of doing what you know is wrong. I know the desire for connection. And I know that sobering feeling that comes with understanding what you’re looking for, and not seeing it.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Trey! It’s hard to know how these pieces will land because we all experience our own humanity so differently, so I’m glad these words and feelings resonate with you. Thank you for reading!