Somebody Has to Go First

Somebody Has to Go First — the AI-made song and lyric film made from this essay (captions available). Watch on YouTube →

Almost everybody has a quiet war going on with somebody. It isn’t on the news and nobody is keeping score. It’s a sister you haven’t called since the funeral. An old friend who said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and then you said a worse thing back. A father whose number is still in your phone, three years after the last text you never answered. A neighbor you walk past without a word, over a fence or a parking space, or over something nobody can quite remember any more.

These wars are small, and they are also huge. They cost sleep. They sit at the table at every holiday, in the empty chair and in the careful way people talk around it. They teach children how a family handles hurt, and children learn it well. Most of all they cost time, and time is the one thing none of us gets more of.

Here’s the strange part. On both sides of most of these silences there is a person who would like it to end. Each of them is waiting. Waiting to be sure they were right. Waiting for the apology they’re owed. Waiting for the other one to blink. And the waiting feels like strength. It’s easy to believe that whoever speaks first loses.

I was waiting on your sorry, you were waiting on mine
Two proud fools on a riverbank, just wasting time

We think it’s the other way around. Going first is the brave part.

Going first doesn’t mean saying you were wrong about everything. It doesn’t mean pretending the hurt didn’t happen, or that it didn’t matter. It means saying: this silence is costing us both more than the argument ever was, and I’m going to set my end of it down. Sometimes that sounds like “I’m sorry.” Sometimes it sounds like “I miss you.” Sometimes it’s just “Hey. I was thinking about you,” and letting that be enough for today.

There’s a picture that helps. Two people stand on opposite banks of a creek, each holding a stone they meant to throw. Nobody wants to drop theirs first, because then the other one still has a stone. But the stones are heavy. They’ve been heavy for years. And the first person to set one down finds out something the other doesn’t know yet: your hands are free, and you can hold something else with them.

I held this stone so long now that it grew into my hand
I called it being strong, I called it taking a stand
But the creek ain’t getting wider, it’s the years that do
And I won’t say to a headstone what I could say to you

A good apology is simple and hard. It names what you did without explaining it away. It doesn’t come with a “but.” It says how it must have landed on the other person. It says what you’ll do differently, and then you do it. What it doesn’t do is demand forgiveness on a schedule. You can open the door. You can’t pull anyone through it.

That’s the risk in going first, and it’s real. The other person might not answer. They might answer badly. You might reach out and find they aren’t ready, or that they never will be. Peace takes two, and you only get to be one of them. But even then, something has changed. You’re no longer the one keeping the war going. Your side of the creek is quiet. That counts for more than it seems.

We also want to be plain about this. Making peace is not the same as going back to someone who hurts you. If a person has abused you, threatened you or made you afraid, you don’t owe them a phone call, a visit or a second chance. Peace can mean safe distance. It can mean a door that stays locked, and your own life growing good on the far side of it. You can put your stone down and still never cross that creek. Nobody else gets to tell you where your safety is.

Some doors should stay locked, and some creeks you never cross
But ours was only pride, and pride ain’t worth the cost

But for most of our quiet wars, the ones over words and pride and misunderstandings that grew roots, the way through is shorter than we fear. It’s one message. It’s four words you’ve been saving for a better moment that isn’t coming. It’s going first while there’s still time to go at all. Too many people have found the right words at a graveside, and said them to a stone.

Scripture calls peacemakers blessed (Matthew 5:9). It doesn’t say peace-wishers or peace-waiters. It says the ones who make it, with their hands, their pride and their phones. Whatever you believe, that’s worth thinking about. Peace in the world is built out of a great many small truces, and each one started with somebody who went first.

If there’s a name that came to mind while you read this, you already know who we mean. You don’t need a speech. You don’t need to win. You only need to go first.

If a conversation like that feels too big to plan alone, there’s a free, private page at scarletbeast.com/make-peace that walks you through it, and nothing you type is sent anywhere. If you’re in crisis, call or text 988, or call 911 in an emergency. More help is at scarletbeast.com/help.

Song: “Somebody Has to Go First” by Scarlet Beast, an Appalachian folk waltz whose lyrics were written from this essay. A free, private planner for a hard conversation or an apology: scarletbeast.com/make-peace

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