My grandmother called me Miss America when we watched pageants together. It made me feel special. Then a contestant answered how she’d make the world better. Her response was beautiful and moving, exposing a seam of reality. I would never stand on stage and paint a vision like that. My grandmother wanted me to believe I could be anything. I don’t think she realized that she’d set a goal that I never asked for. I still don’t know who I want to become. Other people’s versions of me have crowded out my ability to know what that might have been.
I set the bar and keep moving it
Better systems, the right structure, everything in its place – first. I tell myself that’s responsibility. It’s a door I locked, then mistake being locked out for failure.
A hidden contract
I made a whole practice out of trying to help people see what I could see. When they didn’t change, I tried harder. I called it generosity. I gifted insight, unaware of the quiet exchange underneath: to be seen and appreciated. It was how I learned to belong.
The gap between what you do and what you wish you did is not laziness
I painted a dresser. I hosted a birthday party. I sewed a doll. I bake enough bread so that our family always has bread. I go to yoga most days. I grow some fruit and vegetables in our backyard. I still call myself lazy because I don’t live in a clean house and I’d rather learn about taxes than do something about it.
I want to arrive
I find myself in this loop. I want to be seen as an expert. Successful. Arrived. But my mind tells me that I’m not an expert in anything. If I want to be respected, I must be credentialed. What a funny belief that gives my power away. And even funnier – I’m not the only.
The first time I lost myself
I did gymnastics from the time I was four until I was thirteen. Nine years of becoming someone specific – someone who was going to be the best, who was going to make it. Then the fear got bigger than the will to push through it, and I stopped. No one told me that quitting a sport at thirteen could mean losing yourself. That the work of rebuilding an identity is enormous at any age – but at thirteen you don’t even know that’s what you’re doing. All the activities, all the people, your whole life as you knew it – gone. And you are the only one left figuring out how to fill that void.
Stop explaining, hold your ground
I posted the car seat with all the details – the brand, the condition, the reason it was safe. People lowballed and ghosted me anyway. I decided to change tactics. I reposted with no details and held my price. It sold. The energy I spent justifying the value was doubt wearing the costume of information.
I’m not ready to get out of my own way yet
I can see what I want to build. I can see the resistance too – the part that isn’t ready to show who I really am. Knowing the block is there doesn’t make it disappear. But naming it is the first honest step. I’m not ready. And I’m writing anyway.
I know my way is in here somewhere
There are so many ways to realize value. I don’t know exactly which one is mine yet. But I know it lives at the intersection of helping people effortlessly, using what I’ve cultivated, and being able to keep doing it without burning out. I don’t need to see it clearly to believe it’s there. That’s what faith is.
Confidence gets quieter
I heard it said that explaining yourself reveals your uncertainty. That when you’re truly confident and sure, you stop arguing, stop justifying. You just get quieter. I’m still learning what that silence feels like from inside.