… could never cross, the monsters that taunted and hounded you, the abysses that frightened you, the mountains which daunted you. Only then can another person really be held, seen, and known by you. The real you. All of you. Otherwise who is holding them, knowing, seeing them? Not all of you. Just a mask you’re wearing. To admit a mistake is to share one’s wounds, too, one’s own absences, voids, lacks, and thus, perhaps, both people see this much: pain is a burden passed down through the generations, which only ever eases when we admit our mistakes.