I had the honor of filling-out a recommendation for a Peace Corps applicant this week. And though its questions were impressive, they weren’t unlike what I’d expected—except for one. And as I’ve sat with this particular question since, I’ve realized it’s one we rarely pose, either to ourselves, or to each other, and yet one I’m increasingly convinced as destructive to live without.

“Are you aware of any circumstance this applicant may be resisting in light of his/her pursuits with the Peace Corps?” In other words, are they running from something? And if so, please extrapolate on the vacant lines that follow.

It’s (delightfully) tempting to think if I jump-ship from my current circumstances, I’ll jump-ship from my current consequences too. If I cut ties with that person, or cut communication with that situation, life with once again breathe free and easy. And in an extreme case, like joining the Peace Corps, what could be better than few thousand miles of virtuously directed breathing space, right? Wrong.

You’ve seen and I’ve seen it. And to some degree, or another, you’ve done it and I’ve done it. We assume jumping-ship will land us at a rescuing life preserver; we assume closing one chapter means we can start entirely new in the next. When the reality is, we are an evolving chapter, necessitating all of our parts, including the seemingly dark, unknown, or mistaken ones, in order to be whole. The ship we jumped from, whether an unfelt emotion of anger, hurt, or sadness, or an un-grieved loss of a dream, expectation, or love, will return. More than likely it will manifest a bit differently, but also a bit more destructively. And it may not feel that way, because we become increasingly adept at numbing-out reality, but it manifests its way into every reality around us. In fact, those around us typically sense the extents, and maybe even initiators, of our running more than we do—and if don’t believe me, ask someone who knows you.

If I’m honest with myself, and the gamut of professions I hold of humanity, it behooves me to say I think we are always running from something. I think we are always dodging an aspect of reality, or realistic state of our humanity. No one wants to be alone; no one wants to be rejected, or belittled; no one wants to face a shady past, or shattered dreams; no one wants to stand in what seems hopeless, or stake hope in what seems a blind future.

So we run.

We turn from reality and chase fantasy. We fix our eyes on escape. And when we’re close to being caught, we hide. We sew fig leaves believed to bring us safety and coverage. We devise clever plans believed to restore a time when things were “okay”—where we won’t have to run anymore. And though occasional threads haunt us, or nagging scars inhibit us, we press-in and run harder. For some this race becomes a lifelong skill, while others are graced by a severe enough abruption, that they’re forced to stop.

“Turn around,” Divinity will say. “You don’t have to run anymore. Please come home.”

“You don’t know me,” humanity responds. “You don’t know who I am. You can’t handle the whole of my truth. To run is my only escape.”

“I know you,” says Divinity. “I know where you’ve been; I’ve been there, too. I know who you are, and I’ve been with you all along. Turn around. You don’t have to run anymore. Please come home.”

In the case of the Peace Corps recommendation, I didn’t suppose my psychological download of viewpoints on human depravity would be terribly beneficial. Nor was I aware of anything significant enough to mention that the applicant was running from. So I clicked “no” and moved-on to the next question.