Open Book Blog

I’m hiding behind everyone else’s struggle. I am the coward in the crowd. Hiding in the open, behind a pretty mask. While I drive around with my positive signs that shout out, in colorful bubble letters “have a great day”, I am not sure that I am even allowing myself to be honest with the person inside the car who made those signs. I write letters, make phone calls, and look for rainbows. “Oh, yes”, I say. “Thank you for sharing and being so strong”, “you’re not alone” I say, but I kind of need to call ‘bullshit’ on myself. I’m right in it with you and I haven’t been real about it.

You are being brave and I am being selfish about it. What I should have said is “thanks for sharing so I don’t have to”. Isn’t that what I mean? Is it possible that the purveyor of positivity is having a difficult time, just like everyone else? No kidding. I don’t want to be vulnerable anymore. I worked so hard to come from a place of strength. I don’t want to be sensitive and emotional. I feel like I have spent most of my life being that. I feel as if my emotional guts are written on the proverbial bathroom walls, for all to see. I want to feel that I have moved past that. Now, I am back to worrying about things I can’t control; my parents, my siblings, my auto-immune sensitive friends, how this virus will impact business, jobs, & lives. This leads me to a dark place, an endless pit of negativity that is full of items to explore.

We are healthy and not at all in good health. Everything is fine and far from it. We are ok and not at all ok.

Before the Shelter in place order began, I was in the middle of taking my victory lap. The culmination of two decades of hard work and sacrifice had started to finally pay off. We had just moved to a new home, my business is the success that I have always envisioned, and I was finding some sort of balance with home and work life. In addition, I had shed about 42 pounds of raw, unfiltered depression from the loss of one of our identical twins. That weight loss was a journey in and of itself, and a victory on it’s own. It was also a gateway to better adventures at the gym.

We saw it coming and had prepared somewhat, but March 25th, 2020 came with a shockingly cold, hard smack in the face: The Shutdown. I sat in my final closing that morning with “safe distance” and gloves on, wondering what my world was turning into. Still smiling from introductions and greetings, the closing began and so did my mind. I had so many questions; when would I sit at a closing table with clients and colleagues again, how would we manage all of these new expectations with these new limitations in place, am I capable of homeschooling my second grader, are we prepared enough, how long will this be going on?

A few more trips to the office and Costco collecting needed items and then I felt kind of ok. I settled in to start to try to figure it out, when another wave of panic hit me. How will I manage and maintain my fitness!? I’ve put in the work, but I know I didn’t get there on my own!

Everyone’s idea of luxury is different. My Gym has always been my happy place. It’s a luxury for me, to afford this time and self care to put back into myself. An investment in my future self as well as my calm presence. It is a place that I can have success everyday. It is a place where nothing else matters for an hour. I can let go for just that time. I can change my goal posts and make each day my best, for that day. I challenge myself to be better than yesterday and I accomplish long term goals through hard work, practice and awesome coaching. To me, that is a luxury that I enjoy and appreciate as often as possible.

It is a high like I have never felt before. And yes, Crossfit is totally a cult. For 5 years, I have pushed myself into this position of being an endurance athlete, with all of my toys and friends, existing in this “Box” down the street. This community that someone else built, had started to mean so much to me. Now, it was suddenly and decidedly closed. I felt bereft. Naked, lost. The foundation of my stability was wavering. The barbells that helped me heal were being locked behind closed doors. Socially isolated, from me.

This is a time to make it work. To figure it out, to do what is healthy and feels good. It is a time to be ok with imperfection and substitutions. It is a good time to slow down and think. To make good choices, to be the best me, that today allows.

My community didn’t abandon me. We made it work. They showed me how to keep on, how to continue and how to make it work with what I have, even with my kid. They opened my eyes to seeing what I CAN do. Now that I need my fitness more than ever, I am finding ways to adapt, I am finding patience that I didn’t realize was there. I am digging deep and finding peace when I need to. There are a lot of deep breaths for no reason. There are a lot of hard days when nothing went wrong. There is also a lot of success that would never have happened otherwise. It’s been a hell of a journey, for one month.

At first, I was doing so great. I cleared a room in my house and used what I had to get my heart rate up and get sweaty. I was super motivated to push through to the other side and get through this. Besides, it was just going to be a couple weeks, maybe a few at the most, “we got this”. I did my work during the day, played teacher, housewife, Realtor, friend, mom, and “managed” really well. I was exhausted at night and tired when I woke up, but I was doing it. I was stressed and full of fear and anxiety. I worried that when the teacher would check in, I would somehow be operating below expectations or my child would admit that we ate Lucky Charms for breakfast that day. Nothing valid or relevant.

When school was canceled and the order extended, I felt all of that fire to push myself, just die. Poof. Empty. I don’t give up easy, so I rallied. With a good push from some great people, including my award wining husband, I made myself accountable by recording my workouts and sharing with my group. I did some challenges from friends and tried to carve out my private time each day or so. I tried to focus on what I was wiling to do. Hearing “ I don’t want to run today” like a whiny teenager in my head was not sitting well with me, At. All. Ok, I don’t want to run, can I jump? Can I dance or just move? And I went from there. Saying yes where I could and just doing it. Each “at home” workout was worth the effort to take the first step. The demons would subside and I could push through another day. Nothing is pretty about the way I workout. My life is chaotic, honest, and unpolished. No filter.

This is not a time to be self conscious or judgmental. This is a time to talk pretty, share, understand, and emote together. It’s confusing, scary and unexplored, these feelings, this…situation. I’ve seen more strong people step up and express their pain in a public way than would have ever been seen as acceptable prior to 2020. That tells me more than anything that what I am feeling is not futile.

As days stretched to weeks, it became harder to carve out the space and time in the day. With so many hats to wear and everyone directing me to Zoom and FaceTime and various educational websites, apps, alternatives, modifications and adaptations. The exhaustion became a force of its own. The inefficiency of what life had become weighed me down in silence, with its de-motivation and lack of empathy. I was not able to get my private alone time. How can one have solitude living in chaos with barbarians? I realized that to survive, to thrive, I would need to adapt, modify and adjust further. I invited my 8 year old to work out with me. Not because he is into it, or wanted to, not because he is athletic or even cooperative. He needs it as much as I do. We don’t have enough space, or the right equipment and I am certainly not capable of doing this properly, but we are doing it.

This is not a time for perfection. This is not at time for filters and photoshop. This is a time to be real. An opportunity to be honest, open and raw. I need this. I need to know that my neighbors are hurting like me. I need to know that this funk, this dark place threatening to take over is not attacking discriminately. I feel so alone, even though we keep reassuring each other that we are not.

My motivation has always been a light within myself. A force that needs to get out, and go. It’s a constant stream of light and power that makes me shine from within. I’ve never needed someone to tell me that I can or to believe in me. If I want something, I work for it. Now, that light is struggling. That force is disabled, dull and weak.

I’ve never felt I had to lean on people like this before. Perhaps that was always a pretty lie that I told myself. Perhaps that motivation, that force that I always felt came from me, never came from me at all. Perhaps it was always you that lights up my insides and pushes me to be my best self. Whatever it is, it’s missing, and I feel aimless mostly. I am not coming from a place of strength. I am coming from a place of uncertainty, anxiety and a stress that has no identity.

This is not a time to have a major break through or accomplish a really tough mental goal. This is already a tough mental goal. This is the major break through that we are trying to accomplish.

I’d like to show you only the best parts of me. I would love to be able to show you the person that I am working toward instead of this flawed, hot mess that I am. But that would discredit the struggle, the battle, the work, inside and outside myself, that has given me the passion to stay consistent. Struggling everyday to keep pushing in that direction, To maintain all that I have worked for; mind, body and soul.

My goal for quarantine is to maintain. I have no goals to do anything more than what I have been doing. Keep us safe, healthy and strong.

Here is 30 days of making it work. Here is 30 days of my struggle, trying my best every day. Here is a story that shows what everyone in the world is trying to do right now. This is less than ideal. This is not perfection. This is life, this is unfiltered and raw. This is me doing my best with no excuses and no shame. This is me without the appropriate equipment/attire/attitude/space. This is me trying to make it all work, trying to find balance, trying to be at peace, to relax on myself and my family. Here is 30 days of staying committed and consistent.

 

Special thanks to my husband who makes everything possible, doable and so much fun.

The Thing For Me
It was introduced to me at first by a friend who I watched go from “30-Something-Desk-Job-Dad” to “Holy-Hot-Stuff-Dad”. After a couple of trial classes and a partial view of his rock hard abs, I signed up for the starter series called “On-Ramp”. Where they go through all the lifts and movements to show the new recruits proper form.

They appeared at first to me, like a cult-ish tight knit community of ridiculously fit, beautiful people. I recall walking into one of my first training classes a little early. Seeing them all inverted, standing on their hands, pushing up and down against the wall. I thought, “Oh, no, no, no. Nope, no way, not me, I am NOT an athlete, these people are hard core, I am not hardcore like that”. Upside down kicking her heels up in the air while locking out her arms, one of the ladies appeared to be around my age. I watched as she did this movement repeatedly. It looked hard, and from her face, it was, but she kept going, pushing. I thought again, “these people are crazy athletes, this is nuts” but this time with a little more respect. Gravity got the better of her tank top and it floated toward her face, giving me a view of amazingly sculpted, powerful abs. I could see the muscles working to make her body do that impossible task. Impressive. That was what brought me here. I wanted an opportunity to craft my stomach like that! I remember thinking “Ok, fine, I will do hand stand push ups as soon as I am able! What a wonderfully crazy group of people.”

The crispy-cool January air seeping in the warehouse-like gym kept me alert. I did all the stupid things they asked me to do, and even liked some of it. After the training, Red-faced, sweaty and feeling physically trashed, I knew that I had gotten another taste of something, and it was delicious, alluring, addictive. I couldn’t stop. I was seduced into showing up and doing my best. I wanted more, my muscles were starting to wake up. Then, I saw that first hint of a bicep on my arms, that’s when it all started to really change for me. I fell in love my sexy arms; the definition, the huge size…awesome because I could DO something with them! They had a purpose. I could lift big weights. I wasn’t just a big lady, I was a strong lady. That meant something, that made me feel something. Strong, capable. Confident.

I found a way to fit it in to my life, or rather it negotiated it’s way into my life. In order to make it work, I had to wake up at 4:30am because even after a couple of months, just going one day a week, I could clearly see, it was working for me. Inside and outside my body. My head even felt clearer.

Plenty of people practice Crossfit and love it. Although I have always been active, I was never an athlete by any means. Looking on from the drama club side of things, to me, it seemed like something only the hardcore fitness nutters do. You know, The uber fit people who eat paleo and suffer for their appearance. I was…less than fit, hardly sporty, and certainly not wiling to modify what I eat. I’ve always been pretty low maintenance and have the attitude “it is what it is” when it comes to my appearance. At first, I was convinced that I was just in it for the basic stuff: a good work out so I could get in shape. It only took me a little while to realize that it’s always been so much more than just fitness.

More Than Fitness
Initially, I wasn’t sure if I could even survive all of these so called W.O.D’s. I was shocked at what I could do, how good it felt when I pushed myself. Then, I just tried to improve a little each time. After a while, I committed more and more time and effort. With amazing coaching, training, & consistent effort, almost three years later; I’ve built up strength and skills to do hand stand push ups, climb ropes (because I can), throw big weights over my head (because it’s fun), jump on boxes, and yes, running. I still hate running, but now it is a means to an end. There is usually a barbell of some sort, waiting for me back in my happy place, at my gym.

Right now, I am the strongest, happiest version of me that I have ever been. I am not defined by the tag inside my skirt or the number on the scale. Not as fit as I want to be, but so much better than I was. I am my own brand of beautiful. I am unique, wild and incomparable to anyone else.

Here I am. Julie 2.0.

Finding Confidence Again

Under the cover of night, I laced up my new running shoes, pulled on some unflattering sports attire, & stretched my legs, like I actually knew what I was doing. I took that figurative first step; literally. I started to walk, I built up to a brisk jog. As each foot hit the pavement, there was a distinct reverberation throughout my body. The different bits of fat & flesh thumped around behind me, like an echo to my initial steps, fighting the momentum of my forward motion, slowing me down remarkably. My mind was blowing up with absurd images of what I must look like in my lumpy black spandex, waddling down the street, red hair flying out behind me. I kept going, this was it. My breath was loud and labored in my dry throat. I turned up the music, squared my shoulders, lifted my chin and tried to keep pace. I could feel the imperfections of my clothing choices failing me, as my body moved independent of my steps. My sporty shirt was riding up under my sweat shirt, to the top of my belly, but I kept going.

I was doing it. Determined. The wind actually felt good on my face, the music was loud. Almost to the end of the street (downhill). I started to feel like, “Ok, I got this”. I turned the corner and tried to ignore the curious eyes of the pack of college students trolling toward downtown. With my echoing hips behind me, I felt like I was hard to ignore. Almost to the end of this section and my lungs started to burn, and my shins, my god, my shins. Another turn and a big hill was in front of me. Deciding to walk for a bit and catch my breath for just a minute, I adjusted my play list. Four blocks later I ran another length.

Anything worth doing is going to be hard

I decided, I hated running. I had heard about the “runner high” and thought that might inspire me to work hard. It did. I kept going, hating every single step. I had an ongoing conversation, actually a tough negotiation with myself. “Just finish running this block, then you can walk for a block”. I made adjustments, got some cool tools, and kept trying, switched my runs to the mornings. I was consistent. Every hateful step, 6 days a week at 6am. I was finished making excuses and needed to find my happy place again. I pumped myself up with “you can do it” and congratulating myself when I was finished. I committed and I followed through. There were a lot of fist pumps. I had to be my own cheerleader.

This went on for a year. There was never any sort of “high” for me from running, aside from the victory phrase “I did it and it’s done for today.” I finally got myself so that I could just run for 20 min (mostly). I could run to destinations, up hills, down the bike path, across the river, and all around Burlington Vermont. I lost a good solid 20+# and I started to feel a little better. I had a taste of something that I didn’t quite understand yet, but I knew I wanted more. It still hurt, every step was a struggle, but the progress was measurable, quantifiable. I could see the start of some real progress. I was committed. I stayed on target, I was consistent and then…I hit a wall. The scale stopped moving, I couldn’t seem to get much faster or run much longer, and as a result, I felt my will ebbing.

And then, Life Happened

After the traumatic birth and first year with my identical twins, I was faced with a problem that never existed in my world. I was really overweight, unhealthy and really unhappy. With my first child, I was young, active, excited for the new life adventure ahead of me, and lost the weight (for the most part) within a year or so. Fourteen years later, there was nothing similar to that first experience.

We had suffered the devastating loss of one of our twins after almost a year with him, struggling in the NICU & PICU. Born at 27 weeks and just over one pound, I knew the odds were tough. He fought so hard to live, every single day. We had so much hope. Five days before his first birthday, his heart & lungs finally gave out and we lost him. My emotions were in shambles. I was grateful for having known him, but felt ripped off at the last minute because I never got to take him home and keep him. For me, it was the ultimate compliment from Mother Nature herself; An opportunity to Mother identical twins. I felt chosen, cherished, special. And after all of that suffering he endured (and smiled through) he didn’t get to stay. It was confusing to feel lucky and cheated all at once.

I had the other half of the twin to care for and our older son who still needed me. I couldn’t find the energy to keep moving forward with my new reality, and also be active, and take care of me. For the first time in my life, I was aware of what I needed to accomplish but unable to make myself comply. I watched as I didn’t do anything about it. I just couldn’t.

I was imbalanced. I felt weak & ashamed. Ashamed, that I had let myself get to such an unhealthy place (even while I finished off the pint of Ben & Jerry’s). I felt weak because I couldn’t just push through, like I always did. It wasn’t really my fault, and yet I was the only one that could make the change. I had all the control, all the power and I couldn’t figure out how to wield it. I had never seen this side before and I couldn’t just shake it off. Finally, I understood what I could never relate to so many others about; A roller coaster ride gone off the rails and headed for oblivion lined with Oreo cookies & self loathing. I hated it.

Love & acceptance comes before growth.

When I was busy raising kids, building a career, renovating houses and planing for the future, I’ve become an older woman. It happened when I wasn’t looking. Suddenly, it wasn’t as easy to reel it in, it wasn’t a simple matter of doing a few crunches and minding my carbs. As much as I like to think I’m in control, I was a slave to what I had become, what my situation had allowed me to be. Limited by my physical frame, my sorrow, money & my time, as I was. I knew I had to start somewhere. I needed to find something that worked for me. I needed to understand why I could look at other people and see beauty in all shapes, sizes and colors, but was completely disgusted by my own naked form. Love and acceptance comes before growth.

Hate before love, actually

Hatred comes before love and acceptance, if I am being really honest. I ended up having to viciously hate where I was in order to actually take the right steps and start to make progress. I had to hate what I was becoming, how I looked, how my future self looked. I didn’t hate myself, just the package. It shouldn’t matter at all, but it did to me. My inner monologue had become someone I didn’t recognize. Constantly, I had to remind myself that I had control, I could change this. It started to be an ongoing conversation. I didn’t want to hate my body. It had been good to me and it deserved to be strong and healthy. It was up to me and I knew it. I thought about it everyday, wondered when it would get easier. When would I have the courage or strength to try?

Finally, one day, I gave myself permission. It was enough; I hated it enough and for long enough, that I took a step that started the progress.  No one is the same after carrying twins physically, and I can’t imagine that I could be expected to be the same emotionally, after loosing one of them. Knowing, I was embarking on a journey of many levels and that it might take some time, I realized, “back to normal” would never happen. My mind set, gradually started to change, to see the positive, to feel empowered (and pissed off) enough to get moving. I also worked to try to understand and accept this version of myself, while I started working vigorously to get my body to a healthy place.

I was working a Coco’s restaurant chain (only slightly more upscale than Denny’s-they have pie!). I donned the pink polo shirt and forest green shorts during evening and weekends to sling hash and pie for profit. It was good money and allowed me to have the independence of my own place (with a roommate) and still be able to pay for community college, books & bills. Finding my groove one busy Sunday brunch, I noticed that I was starting to get some regular customers. I had the overflow section which gave me a lot of tables when we were busy. Sunday Brunch was always busy. I called it my “Money Day”.

I loved waiting tables at breakfast. The most important meal of the day, right? and I was good at it. After church got out, families would come in all dressed up, smiling and looking for the good feeling that only comes from breaking bread together, to complete their day. Other people staggered in, bleary-eyed, with their dehydrated smiles and shaky hands, left over from a night of drinking and antics. Either way, I always felt like there was one word that would make people happy when they finally arrived in my station: “Coffee?” I would ask with a genuine smile and a pot full of freshly brewed bean juice, in hand. “Oh, yes, thank you so much” was usually the reply. That made the rest of the process easier for both of us, and I honestly believe coffee was the secret to my success, more than my smile. More satisfying to me than getting a super big tip (which you don’t get at breakfast, in those days there was often a lot of small change on the table for a so called “tip”) was the grateful and satisfied expressions of my customers. I was “in my happy place, doing what I love, so I know I didn’t force a smile”. (Cindy Allard)

 

 

I remember one Sunday Brunch in particular. It stuck in my mind because I was in a fantastic mood that day, practically untouchable in my joy. My section was full and I was on my third turn over of tables. I felt good, my apron had a lot of small change and was getting heavy. I enjoyed the gentle clang-clang as I walked briskly across the dining room floor. I was feeling confident in my stride, I had an easy rhythm to refilling coffees, clearing plates, chatting & taking orders.

I made my way around the semi-circle of tables to several groups of regular customers. I loved to take care of their needs during brunch and make it an enjoyable moment. I knew how to make my time the most efficient to make the most money I could out of my shift. This, was my jam. It gave me “a feeling of strength, accomplishment, & peace.” (Nancy Seidel)

 

One gentleman, that I had waited on several times, made a remark to me as I refilled his coffee. He always sat alone and he always ordered a tomato juice and a Budweiser with his eggs and bacon. His comment surprised me and stuck in my mind because it was pretty bold. Very matter of fact, He said, “You know, If you dolled up your face a little you’d look really pretty.” Without missing a beat or loosing my smile, I hit him back with “Oh, but some people think I look great the way I am!” I winked and bounced off to fill more coffee cups. I didn’t think much about it at the time. I wasn’t hurt by it and I kind of just remember thinking he was a looser for making such an obviously chauvinistic comment to a young woman like me. Maybe it took him 3 or 4 visits to notice I was kind of attractive, but my boyfriend had surely noticed already, thank you very much.

It wasn’t until much later that I had to ask myself “WHY?!”
What happened between my 9-year-old self and college? Why was I suddenly able to say “no thank you” to the gift that was being offered. Why did I suddenly find the ability to let someone else’s opinion roll off my back without a second thought. How was it that I suddenly, knew his words were mistaken?

The answer is simple: Confidence. Experience and understanding of where I was in the world, of the part that I played. I knew I was unique, loyal, kind and worth it. I felt “strong and focused” (-Monique Bedard). I was confident in my job and my relationship, but it was more than that. I had a taste of independence and freedom. I knew what I was working for. I understood the risks and I could practically taste the rewards of my efforts. I was a waitress; the harder and more efficiently I worked, the greater the financial reward. I could count it in pennies, nickels, and dimes. I could feel it in the weight of my sagging apron, full of change, after the lunch rush died down. I could see it in my coffee can full of ones, fives and a few twenty’s at the end of the month. And it felt good. I had learned what my 9-year-old self didn’t yet understand. For me, working hard and being good at my job gave me confidence, self-worth, and joy.

 

 

When the angelic & vile faced little blond girl informed me at an audition for a local performance, that I would “never get picked” because I had freckles and “freckles are ugly”, I believed her. She was very convincing. Initially, I had offered her a smile. Her hair was neatly tied up in a pretty pink satin bow, with several ringlets cascading down to the nape of her neck. They swished back and fourth while she happily (and over dramatically) slammed me with just a few words. My smile faded fast, she even wore make up! A quick glance at her smug mother, who was looking on with silent approval, evaporated any hope that maybe she was out of line. Looking one more time, around the stuffy room, lined with nearly identical girls, all dressed in their Sunday Best. I realized that I was indeed an anomaly in this Southern California setting.

The “Annie” Circa 1980’s Perm haircut that my Dad thought was “so cute” did nothing to downplay my bright red hair. It practically shouted at you, as the artificially-tight, three inch curls flopped above my head, moving independently of my face. And yes, I had the dark sun-emblazoned marks of the freckled-face that goes along with the hair. It shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow, I was shockingly made aware that it did. Eventually, I accepted it as the truth, as fact.

We are what we strive to be

Never mind that there millions of people that look very similar to me, I was wiling to take this overdressed and under considerate wanna be actor girl on the authority of what was attractive. How Dare Me!? It wasn’t until recently, that I had to ask myself, “Why?” Why did I let certain people downplay my worth? Why did I listen?

Why isn’t my inner voice shouting back, “It’s about what I can do and not about how I look”! (Lisa Tomasik)

I walked in to the audition room already defeated. I stepped onto the stage feeling my first real hint of uncertainty. Anxiety. Having “Butterflies” is an almost pleasant description and does not relay at all the experience that was mine. What I felt was the slow motion drain of the color leaving my face. Dizzy head, rolling stomach, my throat suddenly dry, my character evaporated, and my enthusiasm disintegrated. My footsteps were heavy, my eyelids were stinging and wanted to close.

Deep Breath. I tried to move past it and erase the waiting room unpleasantness. Searching for my confidence again, I focused on the task at hand. I started a slow pattern of movement, as I fell into character and tried to prove my abilities. Almost instantly, I was scolded by the stiff panel of emotionless, judgmental looking theater people. Without permission, my face turned bright red, they noticed, the shock was real, and I knew that little twit was right. Right then and there, I accepted it as a known fact that I must be odd looking, compared to everyone else. Later, I decided that acting wasn’t for me. I told myself that I just didn’t want to be around mean people. That angry little snot crushed my dreams…and I just let her.

Beauty is subjective
It seems like everyone I talk to, no matter what they look like have the same frustrations about not meeting the standards of the “current ideal physical image”. I thought I was dressed super cool; with my lacy white bow and matching lace overlaid white top. A multicolored corduroy skirt finished the look. I thought I was “in style” and looking pretty good. It was the 80’s, Madonna wore lacy bows in her hair, and she was really cool, so I couldn’t understand why someone would go out of her way to come over, get in my face, and make it crystal clear that I was not attractive or desirable. Then again, her hair was perfect, this was obviously not her first time shutting down an amateur. Why did I even need her validation? She was no one to me, just a girl that I had never seen before and would never see again. What drove me to put so much weight on her opinion? Was this supposed “expert” on the subject beautiful, herself? I certainly didn’t see anything beyond her superficial packaging that was attractive, but it is hard to find beauty in someone who shows you their dark side so aggressively.

Why was I afraid to say, “I think [I] look really good” (Olivia Frascino)

Our entire lives have been bombarded with other peoples opinions. Most of the time, we don’t even realize it. These opinions sneak in, they slither around throughout our subconsciousness, rattling around with disturbing force, causing trouble, corrupting along the way, until, they finally settle in to disguise themselves as fact. Eventually, we accept these opinions as reality, as truth. It becomes difficult to separate out what is real and what is put upon us by the media, our peers, community members and sometimes family. We are constantly being provided with someone other persons opinion of what we should all strive to be. It’s confusing, unreasonable and impossible to achieve. It changes with fashion and the times. Whether we know it or not, we are all looking up to that and subconsciously making a decision; we must become what we are told to be. We must become what is, for most of us, unattainable.

It leads me to wonder why we can’t just be “The most authentic version of [ourselves]” (Melissa Rubenchik) all the time? Why aren’t we content, secure, and confident with that? To try to be the best “ME” I can be, seems like enough, don’t you agree?

All we have is each other

 

We are unique creatures. Our differences are what make us unique. Those little variations that we are constantly trying to downplay, hide, disguise and change. What I see in you, that I think is special, is the very thing you despise. We should celebrate our differences, our uniqueness. It is our individuality that gives us our advantage, our strength. Our strengths are what enable us to do great things. Great things give us confidence to help us understand our worth.

Imagine how different my first impression of myself would have been if the girl had simply wished me good luck, Glared at me dangerously from across the room, or not even acknowledged me at all? We have the ability to affect other people on a subconscious level. We look to each other for validation and confirmation. Why don’t we try to encourage each other to be our best rather than dictate defeat?

As an adult, I know that my worth comes from what I can do, not how I look. I am in charge of my choices, not a victim of the circumstances. I have the ability to be kind. To be kind to myself. I need to remind myself that I am what I am working toward. I will work to change what I can and find a way to let the rest go. I am unique, wild and beautiful, just the way I am. I’m still working to love & appreciate what I am today, even if I am working hard to change what I will become tomorrow. I recognize that we are all struggling. I will celebrate and support others in this quest to find our confidence on this crazy spinning rock. I don’t want to be that little girl who never realized that she was ugly until informed by a stranger. I don’t want anyone else to feel that way either. Not ever. All we have is each other. I am here for you.