Over the past two years, I estimate I’ve sat in Spiritual Direction with around 200 different people—different backgrounds, cultures, faiths, and stories. Each person uniquely themselves, yet something strikingly similar keeps showing up… a shared ache. A longing beneath the surface. A quiet yearning to stop performing and simply be real.
For those unfamiliar, Spiritual Direction is an intentionally vulnerable space of spiritual formation—an interpersonal experience of being seen and heard in the presence of another. These conversations are often quiet, slow, and tender—but they are anything but superficial. I’ve come to think of spiritual direction as a thin space for the soul.
What is a thin space? Theologians and mystics have used that phrase to describe moments when the veil between the ordinary and the holy feels unusually sheer—when we become suddenly aware of the sacred that’s been there all along. It’s when our senses awaken, and our consciousness tunes to a deeper presence—some would call it God’s presence. I find it helpful to call it Love.
Some find thin spaces in cathedrals, prayer, meditation, worship, or mountaintop views. I find them most often in shared silence, in a deeply felt story spoken aloud, in the long pause between choosing courage and confession. Yes, I encounter Love most often in the presence and truth-telling of another.
So, thin spaces aren’t just mystical mountaintop experiences—they’re also born in the sacred reality of relational presence. And that kind of deep presence often gets blocked—not by malice or intention—but by our tendency to engage relationships through performance rather than presence.
There have been times I’ve caught myself mid-conversation—whether with a friend or a directee—and realized the real me wasn’t actually there. I was pretending. Offering a curated version of myself: a safer, more certain, more acceptable version.
Performing, simply put, is the act of managing how we’re perceived. We shape our tone, posture, and stories to fit what we think someone else wants or needs. I suppose sometimes that’s necessary in life. But often, it’s just hiding. And when we do it habitually, it steals the possibility of thin space. And there’s no room for sacred presence when we’re busy trying to be impressive or invulnerable.
Our relationships often suffer more from who we pretend to be than from who we really are. Most of us don’t wake up intending to wear masks. But we do. We learn to perform—becoming what we think others expect: the competent leader, the smart thinker, the wise counselor, the fun friend, the kind person. These personas aren’t always false—but they’re rarely our whole selves. They insulate us. They make us look connected without letting us be connected. And the longer we lead with them, the harder it becomes to tell the difference between performance and real presence.
It seems that the older I get, the more I too ache for depth—for the kind of relational connection that isn’t managed or performative, but real. I find myself drawn to the intimacy of Love. But I’ve also learned that realness can feel risky. It doesn’t always fit the scripts we’ve inherited or the roles we’re expected to play.
I’ve noticed, in myself and others, how easily we drift into relational performance—how tempting it is to show up as the version we think others want. And occasionally, when I’ve tried to step out of that—when I’ve shown up more whole, more honest, less managed—it hasn’t always gone well. Sometimes, it’s actually strained relationships. Not because I intended harm, but because realness, even when spoken gently, can feel disruptive when it breaks the unspoken rules of performative relationships.
We often say we want authenticity, but it can be hard to hold. We promote vulnerability, but usually only the tidy kind. We confuse real presence with politeness, and treat honesty as something unsettling. And so we learn to hide, to shrink, or to stay surface-level—until we’re no longer known. Or worse, we start believing that showing up as our true selves isn’t welcome—or even safe.
Now, let me be clear… healthy relational boundaries are good. Necessary. But sometimes what we call boundaries are actually refusals and resistances. Refusals to tell the truth. Resistance to discomfort. Refusal and resistance to Love. And when that’s the case, they’re no longer about our health or wholeness…they’re about protecting our fears. Relational walls built from fear often masquerade as “boundaries”—but instead of protecting connection, they block it. What could have been thin place becomes a place of confusion and disconnection.
So what does it mean to risk realness—to show up heart-open, unmasked, and truth-told?
It means choosing to explore your actual being over managing your image.
Embracing silence long enough for truth to speak.
Not offering a right answer, but an honest response.
Receiving someone’s reality without rushing to fix or frame it.
Risking realness—not for shock value, but for the sake of showing up.
And trusting that thin places are holy spaces.
Thin spaces aren’t always comfortable, but they are always sacred. And they open when we forget about ourselves and stop trying to be impressive, good, or right—and instead dare to be real. They form when we refuse to posture and choose to be present.
So today, may you risk realness.
May you help create thin space—holy space—for others to do the same.
Shane Ash 