Mirror, mirror, on the wall—who is still left, after it all?
Me.
Dear Reader, in today’s narrative, I’m fessing up to you that it’s been years since I have well and truly done what is right for me. I’ve gotten lost again, allowing the noise around me to take up real estate in my mind & heart, steering me down paths I would normally never tread, and it has taken a toll, slowly eroding my spirit.
I used to know more about myself, and see it reflected in all I did, but lately, I can only see the blurry outline of that girl, and I want her back.
I think it’s time I sat with myself and asked the question—how do I show myself love and nurture who I’m meant to be?
I know there’s not one simple method, but there is definitely an explanation (or two) as to why this is so difficult to answer.
Hindsight hot takes: we are not born with an innate sense for self-love, like it is with our need to survive; rather, we must cultivate it like a farmer who plants a seed, knowing (or willing) it to one day bear fruit. When you’re in the formative years, your “farmers” are parental and adult mentor/authority figures, who become so occupied with fashioning an identity that fits into society’s (and your own little microcosm’s) norms. With military precision, it is indelibly imprinted on your consciousness—how to move, walk, eat, speak, dress, and act—without stopping often to get your opinion. While I understand the protocol of modeling such behaviors, especially now, as a mother of two, I also think it’s a shameful waste of individuality.
If I’m being honest, in elementary school, I was quite proud of who I was— a perpetual storyteller, writer, bookworm, singer, artist, and actor, staging elaborate backyard skits and living in my own fairy dreamworld with a unique ensemble to match (you’d see me sporting old bridesmaid dresses from garage sales to play in). My mother, specifically, allowed me these liberties, and I loved who I was then, never asking myself if I measured up to the status quo, because I was too busy making mud pies and roller skating to care. Add to all of this a dash of tomboyishness to temper things and keep me close to nature, where I felt at home. I did what fed my soul, and those halcyon days fueled my creative flame.
Unfortunately, self-love morphed quickly into self-doubt, right about the time the 7-headed hydra of puberty reared its pimply head. We returned to the Lone Star State, right at the start of middle school, and I was always referred to as the “new girl.” I spent my days feeling like a paper doll, shifting my personality “outfits” to find the one identity that fit in (something I was never truly successful at). It was terribly lonely in that skin.
However, the ephemeral exoskeleton I fashioned still had glimmers of my original self, and it wasn’t until we moved again at the start of high school that I worked to gain some back. My inner writer found a home in the form of Journalism/Newspaper staff writer & editor; another outlet emerged in the Young Writer’s Guild (does anyone remember our “Shades Of Blue”?), and I spent an abundance of my free time with an artistic best friend as my kindred, listening rapturously to his music, and soaking up his creative persona so that I might reinvigorate my own. Poetry leaked from my pencil, onto the page, and I took pictures of nature and architecture on the side. Finally, I peeled away my layers of “paper doll” Stepford Teen and blossomed a bit. The best help for my weird phases was found in the comfortable oddity of Theatre, a Godsend—there were kids in my classes, and working each show, that made me feel less of an outcast and more like myself. Although I never made it into the inner sanctum of the Director’s “chosen ones,” I still gave it my all and found my future passion.
A hop, skip, and a college education later, I found my stride again, pursuing my degree in Literature, even penning original poems and winning an Excellence In Writing award from my mentor Professor at SHSU. It felt like a sign, but, I ignored it, out of fear of rejection, stuffing my dream into another cardboard box, the likes of which I was growing accustomed to living out of. My nomadic existence continued, and I had to shelf my dream for a while. Fast forward 10 years and a teaching career shift further, and I felt like God was opening a small door for me. I went from nine years of American Lit teacher at my alma mater to a middle school teacher/director hybrid of Theatre Arts, my favorite subject from my school days. I helped create stage magic with budding actors and technicians. I even went back to writing stories in the form of monologues and three potential plays for my students.
It was always in me to write—but I kept denying it as a part of myself, because I feared criticism. I also let other responsibilities become an excuse as to why I couldn’t write, which blurred the years together and that part of me lay dormant.
With no excuses to shackle myself to, I rekindled a long-dormant blog during the “End Times” of the Covid-era in 2020. There were over 40 of them when I finally got some sense of “normalcy” back, and I was proud that I just put myself out there. My daughter was my critic and test audience, so some of them are severely edited from my first takes, but I did it. Me. Nobody else. It was my way of connecting, expressing my side of the disaster while we were all cloistered in our homes like explorers stranded on a desert island. I admit that I had a lot of negativity churning around me, but out of the fog of illness and paranoia came my desire to bring hope to those who needed it. I even penpaled my students who went on Spring Break and never got to finish our year. I cultivated those seeds I’d been planting, hoping they’d grow into a bountiful harvest.
Now, as an early 40-something, in the “prime” of life, I have begun nurturing the original “me,” so I can get to know myself again and feel like what I can do matters.
I’ve finally had enough of being a backseat passenger as the landscape slips by—it’s time to be the leading lady of my own life.
My next foray into this came serendipitously via email, and on a whim, I applied, and was accepted to, a limited writer’s summer workshop at the University of St. Thomas. This gave me a sense of direction with my newest play, one I feel compelled to narrate, about someone whose identity has been wrapped up in their appearance (a bit close to home, but I was given counsel at this seminar about grounding your fantasy in a bit of reality, to make it tangible to your reader). Art imitating life, imitating art, or something like that. I have always felt that my purpose on this globe is to help “fainting robins unto their nests again,” giving them a voice to cope with the trials of adolescence, and I think this work could be my way to help. For the first time in years, I chose myself, and I also fed my soul with a summer jaunt to the Big Apple for a Broadway Teachers Workshop, leaving the city inspired to produce more beautiful art through live performance. I have truly thrilled at being a Theatre Director, able to envision all aspects and see them come to fruition. Now is my chance to use this as a way to also examine the human condition thru the lens of the preteen eye. Who knows? Perhaps, one day soon, my students can produce my play. Then, I can go one step further, and become a published playwright.
Planting seeds of self-love, one line at a time.
“Life is not about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself.”
-George Bernard Shaw-
I’ve never been good at keeping to New Year’s Resolutions, but with a new 365 on the horizon, I think it’s time to love me again. I want to look in the mirror and remember my origin story, to notice that she’s still there, under the crinkles and changing forms that come with age and parenting the future of this world within my own four walls.
I am talking about resolving to make intentional decisions for the betterment of my overall well-being, both physically and emotionally.
About being proud of what I’m investing my energies in, what I’m producing that I’d be proud to call my own.
Cultivating an appreciation of this temple of soft curves I’ve been living in, even if I’ll never grace the cover of Vogue.
Making time to listen to what it’s been telling me and what I can do to become a healthier version.
It took losing a gallbladder recently to see that I’ve been falling down on the job, and it has to take precedence over the thousand tiny, self-destructive choices that have crumbled the foundation of my essence. So, going forward, I want to know that the me I see is truly, unapologetically ME. There’s a lot left to do, to see, to say, to feel, and to know—I just want it to be experienced in my own skin, doing what my soul says is right.
I make this Christmas wish for you, kindreds—that you are the you that you, and the universe, need you to be.
As Walt Whitman once said, “I exist as I am. That is enough.”
There’s no one I’d rather be than me.
-Kindred Spirit-
12.24.23
Kindred Spirit: A Journey 