There’s A Lot I Don’t Love About Myself
Some phenomenal writers like Niklas Göke and Michael Thompson have recently written stories regarding the forty things they love about themselves. It is undoubtedly a powerful exercise in affirming self-love–something that is often so lacking in adulthood.
I have been encouraged to join in on this writing prompt, and perhaps I really should be doing it, but the truth is that this is the story I want to write much more. This is the story that feels so much more true for me in this moment.
These days, self-love can seem like such a tenuous thing. We are supposed to love ourselves–but not too much. And of course, take pride in what we do–but not be boastful. Remember that everybody is drawn to confidence–but nobody likes a narcissist.
Basically, we’re supposed to find a balance that few of us have ever truly learned. It’s easier to be self-deprecating when so many of our lessons on self-esteem were left behind in grade school classrooms. Even Mister Rogers’ message (which was meant for all) gets maligned as we argue that everybody cannot possibly be special. We even toss around the word snowflake as if specialness were some social disease.
Truthfully, I believe that everybody is special in their own way–including me. I also believe that self-love is vital. But I’m not ashamed to admit that self-love is also very hard for me.
Often, I mention a moment during a Biggest Loser casting call where it occurred to me that I wasn’t substantially proud of anything in my adult life. Seriously, anything. Were there things I liked about myself? Definitely. There were even small wins along the way that made feel a bit proud… but they weren’t accomplishments that really meant anything to me.
That’s a difficult place for anyone, and it took me many more years to figure out what it would take to honestly love myself again.
So I love how far I’ve come. I love that I’m able to extend grace to myself and not feel guilty about the fact that I don’t want to dig for 40 things I love about myself. For me, digging deep means getting honest about what I deeply love about me. Even if that means this is a very short list.
Sometimes, I’m amazed by my own story. I have fought and struggled so much in this life that I’m genuinely surprised to still be alive. I’m not sure how else to say it–my past has been brutally colored by trauma, and now my future has been filled in by recovery.
Which means I’m still pretty damn messy.
A lot of people think about recovery and renewal as these beautiful processes which paint the prettiest of pictures after so much pain. But survivors know a secret–recovery is really messy. Sometimes, it’s downright ugly. My friends Emily Kate and Rosemary Barria can attest to that reality.
And yet? I’m pretty damn proud of the progress I’ve made (and continue to make) despite my long history of heartbreak and toiling in the mud of mental illness. I love the way my survival of abuse, depression, and tragedy makes me feel a lot like a lotus flower pushing through the dirt.
Perhaps most of all, I love that I can dare such honesty in my work. Make no mistake–I am not the writer you go to when you want to tackle productivity or hop onto a cloud just to ride over a rainbow. I am not your feel-good writer. That’s not to say I am not a hopeful one, but you might have to wade through a helluva lot of murky water to see it.
I don’t feel bad about that. In fact, I love it because my work reflects my truth.
Back in my mid-twenties, I faced the startling realization that there was nothing in my life that made me proud. That moment wasn’t humbling–it was humiliating. And at that point, I hadn’t even reached a “rock bottom.”
Now that I am turning 37 (omg) this year, I can readily say there are only a small handful of things that make me truly proud. Plenty of people think I ought to feel bad about that. Every once in a while I get a reader who complains that my life is worthless because I’m “just” a single mom. Some have even said I write online only because my “real life” is a complete failure.
It’s funny because I used to worry about things like that. About being a creative whose work wasn’t backed up by her outer life. As if that’s anything to be ashamed of. Or as if an artist has to prove herself worthy in her personal life just for her work to be taken seriously.
No, I love the way I have survived despite battling the darkness of suicidal ideation. I love the way I have become a good mother despite all of the cards that were stacked against me. And I love the way I have finally pursued a writing career over these past 10 months despite the comments that I’m only fooling myself.
I am so proud of myself and this progress, but most of all, I love how any supposed “smallness” of these accomplishments cannot bring me down.
In case you missed it, I am not exactly where I want to be. There is still so much in my life that needs improvement, and I no doubt have many deep struggles ahead. But there’s nothing wrong with that.
Self-love has nothing to do with our productivity, awards, or appearances, but it has everything to do with acceptance.
We don’t love ourselves because we’ve done anything remarkable. We love ourselves because we cannot even be ourselves without self-love. Love is not the icing on a cake, it is the cake–the basic nourishment which every soul needs.
Far too many of us wait to love ourselves in adulthood until we feel like we are finally lovable. We refuse to accept ourselves until we reach some arbitrary level of accomplishment that tells us we’re somebody.
It’s a tragedy that more of us can’t accept ourselves through adolescence and into young adulthood, and it’s a damn shame when we can’t see our worth in the midst of our most arduous journeys.
Though it might go against reason, self-love and acceptance are not prizes to win or earn. They are the very foundation for any brilliant and worthwhile life.
I gave the whole “40 Things I Love About Me” a great deal of thought. More thought than I ever give most other writing prompts. After so much searching, I came to the (possibly unpopular) conclusion that I don’t love 40 things about myself. Not in the way that everybody means.
Sure, I could scratch around for certain things. Overlook my poor body image and talk about my green irises outlined in navy blue, or my shapely rose pink lips and delicate little ears. Likewise, I could write about the parts of my past which look good on paper but mean so little to me. I could search for 40 “lovable” things that would completely kick my beloved honesty in the teeth.
To be fair, there are far fewer than 40 things I love about me and much more than 40 things I accept about myself instead. But even finding a multitude of things I don’t like about myself is no failure or tragedy.
Lovingly accepting myself and every imperfection or self-perceived flaw? I see that as the real victory in my life. That’s why I keep striving–not for optimization, productivity, or even accolades. I strive to lead a life with plenty of value and success, but those are two things which can only be determined or defined by me.
Thanks to the writers mentioned above who inspired me with their own stories:
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There’s A Lot I Don’t Love About Myself
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