The Audacity to Admit I Have a 10 Gallon Tank

 Audacity: Not the loud or reckless version. The quiet courage to live fully on my own terms, trust my instincts, live with intention, and follow resonance even when it’s unfamiliar. The willingness to step into life with self‑trust, intuition, and a little fire. The part of me that says yes to experiences that expand me. I lived that way once. I’m living that way again. She’s back — and truth is, she never left. She’s just rising again.

                                 

I’ve carried the motorcycle gas-tank analogy with me for years. It started as a simple way to explain why I often felt out of sync with people — why conversations that seemed meaningful to others felt thin to me, why I could sit in the quiet corners of my mind for hours while others skimmed the surface of their own.

Some people run on two‑ or three‑gallon tanks. Most run on five or six. A rare few have eight or nine.

And then there are the ones like me — the ten‑gallon tanks. The ones who feel in layers, think in spirals, and live in the deep-end even when the world is splashing in the shallows.

I always knew this about myself. But knowing something and admitting it are not the same thing.

For a long time, I tried to make myself smaller. Not because anyone asked me to, but because I didn’t want to be the person who always felt “too much” in rooms where everyone else seemed perfectly content with less.

And then I experienced a friendship with John — someone very dear to me.

John and I were never romantically involved, but our connection ran deep. He was the first person in my adult life who didn’t make me feel like I needed to translate myself. He didn’t flinch at depth. He didn’t get overwhelmed by nuance. He didn’t retreat when the conversation turned inward or upward or sideways.

He met me — gallon for gallon. Maybe even more.

And then - he was gone. He died suddenly on October 5, 2022 at the age of fifty‑two.

For a while, losing that connection hurt in a way I didn’t have words for. I didn’t know how to grieve the loss of being seen at a level I’d never experienced before.

But time has a way of softening the sharp edges of memory. And as the ache faded, something else emerged — something quieter, something truer.

I stopped looking at what I lost and started looking at what it revealed.

And what it revealed was me.

It showed me the size of my own tank. It showed me the depth I’d been carrying alone. It showed me why I’d always felt a little emotionally “unmet,” even in relationships filled with love and loyalty.

My partner now is a good man. Steady. Kind. Loyal. Devoted. We have a great relationship and make a wonderful team.  He gives me everything he has — all six gallons.

But he’s not built for ten. And that’s okay. Not many people are. His depth is steady. Solid. Real. It’s just not the same size or shape as mine. And for the first time, I’m allowing both truths to coexist without guilt - not as criticism, not as a complaint. Just as a quiet acknowledgement.

It’s an acknowledgement that explains the quiet ache I’ve carried through every romantic relationship I’ve ever had. A truth that explains why certain friendships feel effortless and others feel like translation. A truth that explains why I sometimes feel more alone in a room full of people than I do in my own company.

Brian has always been my safe harbor — steady, loyal, grounding. But depth has always been my ocean. And I’m finally allowing myself to swim in it again.

I am a ten‑gallon woman in a world built for five‑gallon conversations. And I’m finally done pretending otherwise.

This isn’t about longing for someone who matched me once. It’s about recognizing the woman he revealed me to be — and choosing, from here forward, to honor her.

Not by shrinking. Not by apologizing. Not by wishing I were shallower.

But by finally admitting the truth I’ve known all along:

My depth isn’t a burden. It’s my native language. And I’m allowed to speak it.

And maybe that’s why this understanding is arriving now, on the edge of retirement, as I’m stepping out of fifty years of working and into a life I get to shape on my own terms. There’s an audacity in that — in choosing to live from my full tank instead of rationing it, in letting myself be exactly as deep as I am without apology.

I’m entering a season where I don’t have to translate myself, shrink myself, or soften the edges of who I am to fit anyone else’s capacity. I get to build a life that matches my depth. I get to choose the people who can meet me there.

And for the first time, I’m not afraid to say that out loud.