self esteem

I was talking to a friend the other day and all I’ll say is THIS post from a year and a half ago came to mind. Does it sound familiar? Yeah, I know. Me too.
xox

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As I write this, I can feel the soft, cool underbelly of the big, older dog snoozing on my feet.
The puppy appears to be asleep except her eyebrows give her away. They signal that she is following my every move. She is plotting another caper and is patiently waiting for me to quit writing, get up, and leave.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”

That is their credo, their theme song, and the canine unspoken agreement.
If I’d let them get tattoos, that’s what they’d say.
But that statement gives ME a pit in my stomach. It sparks a crusty, old, unkind memory that hits me like a sucker punch.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”, is a quote is from the cover of a book about dogs.
It’s kinda funny, but it got me to feeling and thinking, which makes me run to start writing. Isn’t it weird how something as innocuous as the title of a dog book can trigger an emotion?

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is a declaration of ownership of…the scraps.
The stuff that is tainted enough that it isn’t fit for public consumption.
It can’t even pass the five-second rule.
Most likely the crap on the floor came off the bottom of someone’s shoe — literally.

“I call it! It’s mine!” That’s fine for Fido, but not for us.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
It is the cover page and the first rule in the Dog’s Life Handbook.
Not ours. Our first rule is “Call Your Mother.”

But what about us? How many times have you and I settled for the scraps in life?
From the blouse at Target that is marked down to 99 cents but is missing a button, (which as much as we say we’re going to—we never replace), to accepting pity sex from your ex-boyfriend?

That shitty “bridge” job that was just supposed to get you through the summer?
What happened? It’s five years later, why are you still there?

I’ve been so broke I have lived off scraps. Specifically, days of leftovers salvaged from one meal or my sister’s “doggie bag” from El Toritos. The irony of the name does not escape me.

I drove a piece of shit car that wanted nothing more in its life than to shimmy sideways.

I’ve also settled for the scraps of affection thrown to me in a dying relationship.
I’ve been seated at the table. I’ve enjoyed the love feast. But when I sensed the end, I did not push away and say my goodbyes with dignity. I dove for the scraps.
Ouch. Oh, hi Fido, funny to see you down here.

I have pretty healthy self-esteem, but there have been some glaring lapses.
I wasn’t alone. Gwen Stefani of the band No Doubt had a hit song “Bath Water” during that time.
Part of the chorus being: ‘Cause I still love to wash in your old bath water, Love to think that you couldn’t love another, Share a toothbrush….you’re my kind of man.’  UGH.

At a certain point, I’m gonna say around my mid thirties, I said: no more scraps.
And I meant it.

No more second-hand clothes, no more beat up chairs-full-of-promise fished out of dumpsters. Enough of the stuff left on the curb because it didn’t make the cut at the neighborhood yard sale. Enough of the sloppy seconds from lovers. I was finished being broke, I was done with settling.
I deserved better than that. I deserved the best.
The best love.
The best life.
The best-made plans.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is my dog’s credo, I’m clear about that now and they can have it.

Tell me, have you ever settled for the scraps?

Carry on,
Xox

Let’s be serious here. I think this is a really important question to ponder since I know we all have one. You’ll get what I mean in a minute.

Who is that person that derails you? Your harshest critic personified. Not necessarily just that voice in your head, but an insecurity that has taken on real flesh and blood to become your saboteur.

Danielle La Porte admitted on a recent podcast with Brene Brown, that in the past hers was the Silicon Valley dude who’s sitting in the front row of a talk she’s giving, wearing a $700 hoodie, not giving a rat’s ass about who she is or what she’s saying. “He thinks I’m too woo-woo, too flakey. I can see him and I can tell he can’t wait for me to shut up so he can get the hell outta there.”
Off. The. Rails.
Saboteur 1
Danielle  0

Brene’s saboteur was any academic colleague.
With twenty-something years in academia, she can spot her nemesis in a hot second: Arms crossed with the prerequisite scowl. Academics want hard facts. They want words, no pictures. They don’t trust anything heartfelt as ‘fact’ and vulnerability, Brene’s wheelhouse, is well, it’s better left to Super Soul Sunday — don’t call it hard research.
Big shame happens in that space (another Brene Brown specialty).
Off. The. Rails.
Saboteur 1
Brene      0

Stand-up comedians can tell you exactly where the ONE person who wasn’t laughing was sitting.

Actors on stage have literally stopped the show to confront the guy who’s on his cell phone.

When I’m in the middle of telling or reading a story I’ve written and the listener yawns or sees something shiny and changes the subject, that sabotages me — every time.
Clearly I’m a bore’ I lament to myself. I take it personally. It can be a stranger or my best friend. It is often my husband — It was ALWAYS my Dad.

We all feel like we’re being judged and not only that — their reaction confirms that somehow — we’re not enough.

Brene Brown had a great suggestion. She says to her critic, “Hey, you can look at me however you want. You can judge me all day long. I know you and I know your story. Everybody has a story that would break your heart,” she goes on, “Even the Silicon Valley dude. And then they armor it up. What I’ve learned is to never take on a job or a project JUST to win over this critic, this saboteur.”

Amen sister.

That, my tribe, is the takeaway. Well, one of them anyway.
Don’t waste one moment of your precious life trying to win over the saboteur.

You ARE good enough. Better than good enough, you’re the best YOU on the planet!

Don’t read your reviews, even on Yelp, especially on Yelp, and DO NOT listen to the haters.
Haters gonna hate.

I want to hear from YOU but I don’t want any comments unless they’re nice and by-the-way, I saw you yawning.
Carry on,
xox

If you like writers, and who doesn’t, Check out the Beautiful Writers Podcasts on iTunes, they’re awesome.

Dearest body of mine,
I would like to extend my most heartfelt apology for under appreciating you all of these years and for being your harshest critic.

It is high time I write this. It is way past time actually–horribly overdue by years, maybe even decades.

I’m sorry. I can be such an ass.

I certainly deserve your indifference and yet you are so endlessly forgiving.
I could learn something from your example.

Anyway, I’m here to say…I’m sorry. And I love you.

I have repeatedly ignored your wishes, judged you and even called you names.
Tiny department store dressing rooms, covered in carnival mirrors and bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights can attest to that fact.

Please accept my sincerest apology.

Over the years, I have deprived you of sleep, rattled you with stress, covered over your anxiety by overworking you and then made up for it at times by smoking and drinking too much, (which I’m sure is exactly what you did NOT need).

Other times, I have marinated you in a melancholy laced dissatisfaction until it affected your health, at which point you knocked me on my ass with anxiety attacks, Mono, a lung infection, strep throat or some other malady long enough to get my attention and give me time to re-group and let you heal.

Thank you and I’m sorry.

I have systematically starved and over fed you; brutally sunburned you summer after teenage summer; changed your natural hair color and texture too many times to count, tweezed, waxed and lasered you beyond all reason and basically treated you like shit since, well– since I was old enough to get away with it.

And don’t get me started on that face.
Every time I look in the mirror I only see the flaws–the thin chicken lips and over-plucked eyebrows, several deep divots due to teenage acne and just when it looked as if I had come to terms with it all–alas, the wrinkles.

But you always cut me slack. Don’t you just want to strike back at me? Like with a giant forehead zit, you know, the kind that hurt like a mutha or a stye in my eye?

You should! What the hell’s wrong with me?

Just the fact that my eyes have sight, my legs still carry me and that I can hear and smell all the wonders of the world around me–is a lottery win! You are sturdy and strong, hearty and healthy — but why hasn’t that ever been good enough?

I’m so sorry.

As a young woman I was naturally thin, (another unappreciated lottery win), so of course, I wanted to be curvy.
I never appreciated your stellar metabolism for one minute. I took it for granted, stuffing my face with junk food knowing you’d save me from myself, when suddenly at around age forty you dialed it back so that now I have to exercise like an Olympian and watch what I eat–every morsel registering on the scale.

Well-played. I know, I deserved it.

I apologize for never knowing you were good enough just as you were.
Listen, I’d like to call a truce. Can we be friends?

I finally realize you are not some cosmic mistake or last minute consolation prize. I wasn’t supposed to be Cindy Crawford or Florence Joyner. I get that now.

God chose you for me, or better yet, it was a collaboration between both of us before we were born, for the life we were meant to lead.

You house my soul for crying-out-loud–my very essence. We are a team, you and me, so you’d think I would have held you in higher regard.

I am so sorry.

So now, having said all of that,
I don’t care what you weigh as long as you’re healthy.

I don’t care if you can’t run five miles like you used to, your legs are still strong enough to hike–hikes are good.

I don’t care if you have wrinkles. Together we have worried and we have laughed–we earned those lines by engaging in a life well lived.

I promise to try to drink less alcohol (you keep telling me it no longer agrees with you).

I promise to get you checked out on a regular basis, you know, for tune-ups –like the high-performance vehicle you are and trust that you can fix yourself most of the time.

I promise to get enough sleep.

I promise to keep us stimulated, body, mind, and spirit, well into old age.

I promise to quit looking around to see how other women are aging and just be happy and make the most with what I’ve been gifted.

I promise to listen to you and to pay closer attention to what you’re telling me.

You, my glorious friend, are a work of art and a freaking miracle and every creak, groan and crack are there to remind me to treat you with respect–After all, we are a team.

Love you,
xox

 

Then I am a genius because I’m am seriously dumb about the learning to be smart part.

“Learning something new is frustrating. It involves being dumb on the way to being smart.”
~ Seth Godin

This has always been a challenge for me. I LOVE knowledge, but I HATE feeling dumb. There is nothing I hate more—except maybe old fat guys playing volleyball on a nudie beach. GOD! I HATE THAT!

I remember getting hives the day our new jewelry program arrived at work. I knew the old inventory system so well I never even looked at the keys. It took eight key strokes to enter an item. Not four and not eleven. Eight. The tech guy who was drowning in too much cheap cologne and smug gave us all a crash course and a number to call in case we faltered. After he left I tried a couple of things he had just shown us and had to be restrained from throwing the entire fucking computer into traffic—before the nerd even made it to the parking lot.

MY frustration turns to rage. Who’s with me?

Frustration as a contact sport? Uh, yeah. Especially with technology. Don’t get me started.

I Google it. I email my smart friends, peppering them with questions. I watch endless tutorials on YouTube and I STILL can’t get Suri to work for me the way I want. The way I was promised. She is cold and distant and I don’t care for her attitude.

As for technology, I’ve been shamed by a pimply faced genius at the Genius Bar and Billy who works for my brother on his way to world domination.
THEY were never dumb. Ever. They were smart on the way to brilliant. I want that. I’ll have what they’re having.

I’ll admit it. I was/am the poster child for “I want to be an expert on my way to being an expert.”

Here is how that plays out in my brain: Don’t fucking talk to me about “a learning curve”. I cannot be bothered with that nonsense. “Learning curve”. Ha! That’s just a nice way of saying: ”You’re the little train that couldn’t on the downslope to stupid.”

Brutal. I know. Can you believe the shit my smack-talking brain says to me? Jeez. It’s a wonder I get up in the morning.

Back in the day, I longed to be fluent in a beginning French class. (What? Don’t turn on me now).
When it was evident that French was a hopeless cause for me due to the fact that I am seriously “language challenged”, (it’s genetic. My tongue is not made to do some of those things. You should feel sorry for me instead of judging), I hijacked the class with my crazy antics. I turned it into I Love Lucy Takes French. At least that way they were laughing with me, not at me—the densest person to ever attempt to learn a foreign language.

I finally discovered over time and many hours of navel lint contemplation, that it’s the feeling dumb part that I hate.

The part that I LOVE is acquiring knowledge. I love to grow and change and know new stuff. It was then that I decided to reframe it. You know, to offset the frustration rage.

What if I was…curious? Not stupid.
Wow.
That feels better already. Curious is a much better thing to be than dumb. At least is was for me.

What if I was trying to “figure something out” as a part of learning? Kind of like a math problem. Except nothing like math because I sucked at math on a count of  it made me feel dumb. Well, THAT was a full circle moment. Anyhow, “figuring out” sounds smart. I like that.

What if I could remember that everyone has an awkward first day at everything. No one comes in as an infant knowing how electricity works or exactly what the iPhone 6 can do—except Tesla and maybe my little brother.

What if I could simply lighten the fuck up and make learning fun? Huh?
Well, these days I’m learning to do that (see what I did there?).

How about you?
Are you okay with feeling dumb on the way to smart? Really? What’s in your coffee?
Help me out here. Share some of your insights, Please.

and then…Carry on,
xox

This essay was embedded into an interview that my beloved Book Mama,www.bookmama.com Linda Sivertsen, did with the author Laura Munson, deep inside a template for writers to use to craft their book proposals.
http://yourbigbeautifulbookplan.com

I’ve been buried up to my neck in this thing for weeks, writing away, but when I took a minute to check this out – I cried. It was first published in the New York Times Modern Love column where it went viral – and got Laura a book deal!
It isTHAT beautiful. And touching, and moving and courageous…and, What the Hell, just take a look, I promise you won’t regret it.
xox

MODERN LOVE
Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear

By LAURA A. MUNSON
Published: July 31, 2009

LET’S say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. You’re still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s — gazing into each other’s eyes in candlelit city bistros when you were single and skinny — have for the most part come true.

Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses. You’re the parents you said you would be, full of love and guidance. You’ve done it all: Disneyland, camping, Hawaii, Mexico, city living, stargazing.

Sure, you have your marital issues, but on the whole you feel so self-satisfied about how things have worked out that you would never, in your wildest nightmares, think you would hear these words from your husband one fine summer day: “I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. I’m moving out. The kids will understand. They’ll want me to be happy.”

But wait. This isn’t the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. It’s a story about hearing your husband say “I don’t love you anymore” and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result.

Here’s a visual: Child throws a temper tantrum. Tries to hit his mother. But the mother doesn’t hit back, lecture or punish. Instead, she ducks. Then she tries to go about her business as if the tantrum isn’t happening. She doesn’t “reward” the tantrum. She simply doesn’t take the tantrum personally because, after all, it’s not about her.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying my husband was throwing a child’s tantrum. No. He was in the grip of something else — a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way I’d responded to my children’s tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.

“I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”

His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, “I don’t buy it.” Because I didn’t.

He drew back in surprise. Apparently he’d expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.

So he turned mean. “I don’t like what you’ve become.”

Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? That’s when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didn’t.

Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: “I don’t buy it.”

You see, I’d recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I’d committed to “The End of Suffering.” I’d finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I’d seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.

My husband hadn’t yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadn’t been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. He’d been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.

But I wasn’t buying it.

I said: “It’s not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parents’ happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents who’ll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”

“Huh?” he said.

“Go trekking in Nepal. Build a yurt in the back meadow. Turn the garage studio into a man-cave. Get that drum set you’ve always wanted. Anything but hurting the children and me with a reckless move like the one you’re talking about.”

Then I repeated my line, “What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”

“Huh?”

“How can we have a responsible distance?”

“I don’t want distance,” he said. “I want to move out.”

My mind raced. Was it another woman? Drugs? Unconscionable secrets? But I stopped myself. I would not suffer.

Instead, I went to my desk, Googled “responsible separation” and came up with a list. It included things like: Who’s allowed to use what credit cards? Who are the children allowed to see you with in town? Who’s allowed keys to what?

I looked through the list and passed it on to him.

His response: “Keys? We don’t even have keys to our house.”

I remained stoic. I could see pain in his eyes. Pain I recognized.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re going to make me go into therapy. You’re not going to let me move out. You’re going to use the kids against me.”

“I never said that. I just asked: What can we do to give you the distance you need … ”

“Stop saying that!”

Well, he didn’t move out.

Instead, he spent the summer being unreliable. He stopped coming home at his usual six o’clock. He would stay out late and not call. He blew off our entire Fourth of July — the parade, the barbecue, the fireworks — to go to someone else’s party. When he was at home, he was distant. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t even wish me “Happy Birthday.”

But I didn’t play into it. I walked my line. I told the kids: “Daddy’s having a hard time as adults often do. But we’re a family, no matter what.” I was not going to suffer. And neither were they.

MY trusted friends were irate on my behalf. “How can you just stand by and accept this behavior? Kick him out! Get a lawyer!”

I walked my line with them, too. This man was hurting, yet his problem wasn’t mine to solve. In fact, I needed to get out of his way so he could solve it.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m a pushover. I’m weak and scared and would put up with anything to keep the family together. I’m probably one of those women who would endure physical abuse. But I can assure you, I’m not. I load 1,500-pound horses into trailers and gallop through the high country of Montana all summer. I went through Pitocin-induced natural childbirth. And a Caesarean section without follow-up drugs. I am handy with a chain saw.

I simply had come to understand that I was not at the root of my husband’s problem. He was. If he could turn his problem into a marital fight, he could make it about us. I needed to get out of the way so that wouldn’t happen.

Privately, I decided to give him time. Six months.

I had good days, and I had bad days. On the good days, I took the high road. I ignored his lashing out, his merciless jabs. On bad days, I would fester in the August sun while the kids ran through sprinklers, raging at him in my mind. But I never wavered. Although it may sound ridiculous to say “Don’t take it personally” when your husband tells you he no longer loves you, sometimes that’s exactly what you have to do.

Instead of issuing ultimatums, yelling, crying or begging, I presented him with options. I created a summer of fun for our family and welcomed him to share in it, or not — it was up to him. If he chose not to come along, we would miss him, but we would be just fine, thank you very much. And we were.

And, yeah, you can bet I wanted to sit him down and persuade him to stay. To love me. To fight for what we’ve created. You can bet I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

I barbecued. Made lemonade. Set the table for four. Loved him from afar.

And one day, there he was, home from work early, mowing the lawn. A man doesn’t mow his lawn if he’s going to leave it. Not this man. Then he fixed a door that had been broken for eight years. He made a comment about our front porch needing paint. Our front porch. He mentioned needing wood for next winter. The future. Little by little, he started talking about the future.

It was Thanksgiving dinner that sealed it. My husband bowed his head humbly and said, “I’m thankful for my family.”

He was back.

And I saw what had been missing: pride. He’d lost pride in himself. Maybe that’s what happens when our egos take a hit in midlife and we realize we’re not as young and golden anymore.

When life’s knocked us around. And our childhood myths reveal themselves to be just that. The truth feels like the biggest sucker-punch of them all: it’s not a spouse or land or a job or money that brings us happiness. Those achievements, those relationships, can enhance our happiness, yes, but happiness has to start from within. Relying on any other equation can be lethal.

My husband had become lost in the myth. But he found his way out. We’ve since had the hard conversations. In fact, he encouraged me to write about our ordeal. To help other couples who arrive at this juncture in life. People who feel scared and stuck. Who believe their temporary feelings are permanent. Who see an easy out, and think they can escape.

My husband tried to strike a deal. Blame me for his pain. Unload his feelings of personal disgrace onto me.

But I ducked. And I waited. And it worked.
Laura A. Munson is a writer who lives in Whitefish, Mont.

*It’s always so interesting (as in weird) to go back into the archives and pull up an old post. You can really see the evolution of my writing. No F-bombs, no conversational tone, just…(yawn) advise.

Anyhow, this is from a year and a half ago, and it seems relevant to right this minute, since I’m hearing that a lot of you are being bitch-slapped around by your kids, your customers, your spouse, or the guy at the post office.
ENOUGH!
Take this advise 😉

By setting boundaries, being appreciative, and showing by example, you teach the people in your life how to treat you.

Will you accept not being treated with love and respect?
or will you stand tall and say “hey, that’s not okay”!
It can even be telling a friend you will not tolerate their chronic
lateness.

Do you show others that same love and respect that you seek?<
Boundaries are difficult for some people to enforce, for they fear they will lose something if they do.
If a love or a job or a friend evaporates because you 
ask to be treated a certain way, then it was not grounded in
any way that could have been sustained over time.
In other words, they was not REALLY a friend, or a lover 
and the cost was too high.

When you treat others with respect and fairness,
kindness, empathy, and love, it is returned to you ten fold.
It boils down to your self worth, and whether you will let 
any person or situation chip away at that.
It also shows you if you are recognizing the worth of 
those around you, and if you value it equally, 
or more than your own.

If you are nurturing, you will be nurtured.
Generosity brings you generous acts,
Thoughtfulness will be rewarded,

Always show your appreciation when someone treats you
wonderfully, for they may be teaching YOU ways you 
should be treated that you hadn’t even imagined.

And then return the favor!

love you you little boundary-setters! Now get back behind the glass!
xox

Faces always talk too much. One line and all their plans are revealed.”
― Floriano Martins

When I look at this face of mine, it appears hopeful, tired, lovely and worn — all at once.
Like my puppy gazing into a mirrored surface, I tend to get skittish and look past it.

I don’t recognize it as my own.

I’ve been attempting an exercise that Louise Hay wrote about recently.
Oh….that rascal—that pusher of buttons.

It’s darted in and out of my experience, like children playing tag.  I’d hear or read about it and I would think: oh, I’ll have to try that.

Then day turns to night, weeks to months, years pass and my life cycles around in that magical way, weaving in and out of different jobs, friends, laughter and tears, and….Here it is again.

TAG. YOUR’E IT.

This time when I read it, I immediately walked into the bathroom and stood before the large mirror that hangs over my sink. No waffling, getting distracted or waiting for a better time.
Luckily I was at home.
That sort of determined resolve could have become uncomfortably embarrassing had I marched into a public restroom at a swanky bistro; or taken a dangerous turn if I had been compelled to stare into my car’s rearview mirror.

So there I stood, on my tiptoes.

My husband is 6’3″ and he built our bathroom to accommodate his height.
I get it.
In most mirrors he can only get a gander of some of his chin and neck. Extremely annoying, SO not helpful, and at our age your neck can be demoralizing.

I am 5’4″ on a day that gravity and my self esteem are being kind enough to let me hit that mark. So unless I’m on my tiptoes, which, after ten years at that sink, like a ballerina on point, has become my natural stance, I see only my eyes and forehead.

We really are a circus freak show of a couple.

Standing together, I fit neatly right under his armpit.
He is Paul Bunyon.
I am wee.

Sorry, I digress.

Okay…

Here is the exercise: you stand at a mirror, gazing deeply into your own eyes.

I know. I can feel your resistance. I recognize it because I felt it for years.

Get back to the mirror!
Don’t look away, which will be your first natural reaction because our mothers taught us not to stare.
For women, this is like putting a blank canvas in front of us, we want to get to work.
Just as we’ve done every morning since the day we were allowed to wear make up, we pluck, shuck, spackle and rouge.

Don’t. Put down the mascara. And those tweezers. Stare only into your eyes.

Now repeat three times: I love you, I love you, I love you.
Without laughing.

I broke into a huge smile and burst into a giant belly laugh during my first attempt.
I’m not sure why.
It just felt like Ashton Kutcher was going to come peeking around the corner with a camera crew and deliver the horrific news that I’d just been “punked”.

But let me tell you what happened instead. Over the last several weeks I’ve been brought to tears, watched my face morph in front of me, felt gratitude and finally love.

I’m falling in love with my own face The same, unaltered one I’ve worn for fifty-seven years.

In love with each line and imperfection of which I am exceedingly familiar. Tiny scars, the varying darts of color that inhabit my irises, and the way those eyes are starting to look back at me.

Full of empathy and understanding, pain and joy.
I’m becoming aquatinted with what inhabits the space behind the eyes, to something deeper still; The observer, my soul.

I suggest you give it a try, but like with me, if it takes a few years, your soul will understand, it’ll wait. It’s not going anywhere.

I love when you talk to me, tell me how this goes. Try it for a couple of weeks and write your results in the comments below.
When you share you really help other people.

Sending love,
Xox

Words to live by. Happy Sunday!

Xox

When Was The Last Time You Felt Proud of Yourself?

“If I weren’t too proud, I’d boast of my exaggerated opinion of myself.”
― Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic

Sounds narcissistic right? I can remember in my early 30’s a spiritual teacher advised me to do something wayyyyy out of my comfort zone.
“The accomplishment of this task will make you feel proud of yourself, and you haven’t felt that since you were a child. It will do you some good.”
Afterword; I did feel proud. It did do me some good and I liked the feeling.
We do feel it as children until it’s ridiculed out of us. That’s a freaking shame.
I get it. It is a tightrope act and it’s not supported AT ALL by society. On the contrary, we are pushed to accomplish Herculean feats in our lives. Balancing the demands of family, career and the feeding of our souls, all without displaying one iota of self satisfaction.

Pride in yourself, or a sense of satisfaction, goes hand in hand with having self esteem. You should pat yourselves on the back if you get something right.
It’s a f#* king miracle that we get any of it right. But be warned: If you go too far, then you are acting proud or arrogant. I’m sorry, but that is a load of old, outdated, stinky BS.

The old maxim “Pride comes before a fall” plays on the fact that when you are proud of what you have, you are also at risk: having something means you have something to lose.
I guess they meant friends.

It’s totally acceptable to be “proud parents”or “proud of the graduate.”
That’s sad, because it just reinforces getting validation of yourself….from the outside.
God forbid you feel some pride on the inside. I like that. It rhymes.
I think we should tweet that: Feel some pride on the inside!

I’m a big proponent of feeling proud of yourself. I highly recommend it.
I give you all permission, just like that teacher gave me.
Just be quiet about it lest someone turn you in to the “Who do you think you are” police.
You can tell me….. I’ll give you props.
Here, I’ll share some of mine first, to walk the talk. Try not to judge.

I’m often the proudest of myself when I do something I don’t want to do, or complete a task that I couldn’t even pay somebody to do, it’s so hellacious.
I whooped and hollered with pride, while dancing and giving myself a high five after navigating the labyrinth of automated prompts and reaching a human being, during my tech problems last week. I also took pride in that fact that there had been minimal cursing……..on my part.

I feel proud after I get my ass to the gym most days. That’s epic for me.

I just helped someone anonymously. Not just me, there were a bunch of us. That person will never know who came to her aid and it still feels good. So, that good feeling, that warmth you feel; it’s some of the liquid love that your heart releases AND I’m gonna go out on a limb and name the other part of it.
Pride. There. I said it.

I was recently typecast as that drunken bitch, Miss Hannigan in a small production of Annie and I’m proud. I’m proud that at 56 I can still tackle all the physicality, singing, dancing and rehearsals required. I’m also proud of my complete lack of vanity displayed in this role (see above).
It’s okay to feel proud when you’re courageously unselfconscious. 
I give us all permission.

I feel some pride every day when I hit “post” for this blog. Writing something daily is a huge commitment and one I do not take lightly. Consistency breeds familiarity, and it’s important to me that you know who I am. Warts, boa and all. Authenticity is the new currency in my life.
I have pride in this work, and the fact that it touches people.
I do do a daily, sometimes hourly Ego check. I make sure my hats still fit and that my maniacal laugh is under control.

There’s other stuff, I’m sure, but I don’t want to get pushed off the tightrope into the rocks below. God forbid.

Let’s start a new movement, shall we? Where we foster good healthy self esteem and support self pride. Where we don’t sneer at the occasional “pat yourself on the back” or the “self five”, as I like to refer to it. Let’s all Feel some pride on the inside!
Don’t panic, we will continue to remain ever vigilant in our efforts to not go overboard and ruin it for everybody.
…Donald Trump.

What have you done lately that made you proud of yourself? It’s okay, you can tell me, no one will know. It’ll be our secret. Then I can give you a “virtual five.” I’d love to hear about in the comments 😉

Xox