A repository, a meeting place, a collection of ideas, to be deposited and withdrawn. Curated by writer Erin Bank.
What if she’s the one who can see the authentic me, and I cannot? What if I can be vulnerable and open and real and all those things and still be seen as having my shit together? Like those aren’t diametrically opposed views? That being vulnerable doesn’t have to equal “hot mess.” That perhaps it’s _my_ definition of “put together” that needs to change, not hers.
“Maybe I have an expectation that if only I do things right, then things will be easier… and the converse therefore is true, if things are hard then I’m not doing something right.”
Is it selfish to turn national tragedies into self-reflection? I struggle with this. It seems both futile and self-aggrandizing.
Our internal struggle to be right and to force the world to change around us is, for me, the true definition of entitlement.
