I had a Moment last night.

These Moments don’t often occur in front of the TV (unless the Dowager Countess is talking); they will show up sometimes during movies (especially in the theater, what with the heightened experience and the popcorn); and they’ve definitely been known to hit me while I’m reading (the power of the written word holds such sway, and always will, the pen being mightier than the tube and all). But on a typical Monday night, in front of an episode of How I Met Your Mother? Absolutely unheard of, as the Countess might say.

But there it was, in a scene with Lily and Ted on the roof, getting all truthful with each other. And then Lily—my least favorite character before now, btw—said it: “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a mom.”

“Whoa,” The Husband said beside me. I felt the collective intake of breath of millions of women, the outrage of mommy bloggers, the sadness of the fertility-challenged. Tears sprang to my eyes. And I felt grateful.

If you’ve been here before, you know that I’m not shy about sharing the emotional ups and downs of being a mother (or being me, for that matter). Remember the post where I told you I threatened suicide? Yeah, good times. The one where I pulled a Chris Brown with my computer? No, YOU go on! Here’s the deal: I tell the truth here because for my first three decades of life, I didn’t. Tell the truth. Anywhere. I carried it around inside myself, covering it with goals and accomplishments and good grades and other stabs at an identity until that all fell apart and I had to become the person I was actually meant to be. And when the falseness fell away, so did my attempts at pretending to be likeable, perfect, smart, together. I was free to be the mess I was, in my life and in my writing, and I found that although such beacons of success as Joel Osteen and Bible Study Brenda (a made-up persona, but I bet you know one) may sell the most books, here’s the thing: people wrote me back. They called me. They reached out, bravely, because they weren’t together either. And in our mutual mess, we found identification. Friendship. Communion. Truth. All by telling it.

So you are invited to kiss my ass if you think I’m going to stop now, or ever. If you think I’m going to join the ranks of “God wants you to be rich” or “Being content in God means always looking happy” because I believe there are times when nothing could be further from the truth. Cut to me, broke in New York or lonely in Birmingham, all the while headed on a path toward my son and my husband. To whom I threatened suicide. Ahem. (Hey, remember when Jesus tore up that temple? Same thing! No?…)

When Lily uttered those words (and didn’t apologize for them by the way, just admitted that they coexist with a deep love for her son), I wondered how much hate mail the writers of HIMYM would receive. All while I sat on my couch, silently applauding. Because here it is: there are things we all think, but are afraid to say. And the not saying them is what keeps us wrapped up in ourselves, frustrated and angry and posturing and defensive. So if you ever need a spot to visit where things are raw and real and not-pretty-enough-for-Pinterest, come on over here. (And if you have nothing nice to say, then come sit by me. I am under renovation by grace, but the project is a long one.) Not telling the truth is what turns you into a disgrace, a Lance Armstrong; it takes everything good you’ve ever done–a story of victory, a narrative of miracles–and turns it into what you were trying to hide from the whole time: exposure as a fraud.

But letting go of the fear of what others think, trusting in a love bigger than yourself and jumping into it? That can lead to a sore back, puffs on the floor, a few psychotic mommy moments, an early bedtime…and a Monday night full of a Moment.