Somewhere between fifth grade and sophomore year, I’d developed the part of my brain that convinces me I suck and everyone will think I’m a failure.
Living in the limbo of having identified an obstacle but not yet having the tools to address it.
Some of us still curl in our cocoons, waiting for our time to be right. We can now see both the butterflies, free and saving us all, but we can also see the raging worms. We know we want to be a butterfly, but it is tempting to escape early. To stay as we were. Because at least the worms are out there, in the world, not enclosed with only their thoughts and dreams and despairs and anger and fear.
Because we’re all so vulnerable, it means we have to put more trust in each other to take care of the collective. Because of this added trust, we become even more vulnerable to the actions of others.
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.
If the bars I set for myself turn into expectations, then no wonder I can’t celebrate clearing them. And even if I set the bar really high for myself (which I know I do), then anything less becomes a failure. It means I define failure as anything less than the absolute best. It means I define success as doing what is expected of me. There is no room for celebration in that equation.
But anyway, here I am, writing these words.
“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.”
Taking the oars back from my chattering monkey brain, and directing where I want to go.
balancing feeling protected with feeling restricted