You can be a real jerk, you know? I’ve heard you complain about everything to do with me – my weight, my height, my face, my personality, my talents… Your voice is that of someone who was supposed to love me, a family member meant to care about me unconditionally. Instead, some of my earliest memories are that of you belittling me, making me feel small so that you could feel powerful.

Six years old – that’s when you started. All I wanted was a piece of pie, something I was too small to get myself. You screamed at me that I was nothing but a fat little piggy, treating you like a slave, beating the refrigerator all the while because you knew the second one of your hands touched me with violence, you would lose all access to your punching bag forever.

How dare I choose to eat food? How dare I grow taller than you? How dare I not keep a veneer of sweetness and light upon my face at all times? How dare I behave like a teenager? How dare I use music and writing to keep my mind occupied with thoughts other than those you forced into my head?

How dare I exist at all?

You almost won, you know. A few times. Like the time you screamed at me that I was a no-good thief for reading a book you gave me yourself. Like the time you told me I wouldn’t amount to anything because I had trouble concentrating in school. Like the time you told me that you wished I’d been aborted.

I’m still here, though. You never won. And you know what? You never will.

I’m beautiful. Those around me love my weight, my height, my face, my personality, and my talents. I’m kind. I’m as generous as I’m able to be with my existing resources.

I’m loved. Even though you told me it would be impossible.

You were wrong. You are wrong.

I’ve been working on replacing your voice with the voices of those who care about me. Who know that I can succeed in life. Who know that I’m worthy of love.

You have no more power here.

Goodbye.

To my Inner Suicide Bomber,

For as long as I can remember, our brain has kept an emergency exit map. I was barely a teenager when you introduced yourself. I didn’t know your name then. I only knew that one day our brain started offering exits whenever life hurt. You climbed in during middle school, right when our grades started cracking and our body learned to freeze. You didn’t need a name. You just handed me a way out: blow it all up. Disappear. End the story before it could hurt worse.

You were relentless. You taught me to quit on things I loved before they could reject me. You taught me to leave rooms before anyone could ask me to stay. You always seemed to have an escape route ready, and you made those exits feel like the only honest answer. Some days I let you take the wheel. You almost convinced me I was too broken to still be here.

But I know you now. You weren’t trying to destroy me. You were a desperate firefighter, a part that learned, very young, that pain didn’t stop until nothing was left. You thought total collapse was the only way to keep the hurt from flooding everything. Thank you for trying so hard, for showing up when nothing else could. I see the good intention behind your chaos.

And I’m taking my power back.

I no longer need you to threaten the whole village to get my attention. I have other parts now: the woman who writes kind notes to strangers instead of suicide notes, the caretaker who sits with Dad through his morning meds without rushing, the writer who stays at the desk even when the words feel stuck. They don’t demand explosions. They just keep showing up.

This season of my life, the caregiving, the grief cards for friends who’ve lost someone, the small acts of kindness I scatter around our city, it’s not something to blow up. It’s holy, messy, beautiful ground. Ground where I’m learning to hold both the heaviness and the joy.

You can ride in the back seat if you want. I know you’re tired too. But you don’t get the steering wheel anymore. I didn’t have to kill you; I just had to stop obeying you. I’m the one driving now. Staying. Creating. Showing up. Growing anyway.

I love you for what you tried to do. We’ve got this.

With reclaimed power and compassion,
Lindsey

Monstrous murmurs hold me back,
Deriding me for what I lack.
That nasty nag inside my brain
Keeps humming this rude refrain:

“No matter how hard you strive,
You’ll never truly thrive.
All you are is not enough.
You’ll never be up to snuff.
Regardless of all you do,
This world has no place for you.”

It’s hard to quiet that vicious voice,
But believing its creed is a choice.
I know I must hold onto hope
If in this life I’m to cope.
One day I’ll land that valued job,
Stand out among the muddled mob.
People will pay to read my books.
I’ll attract adoring looks.
For just ‘cause now I’m left behind,
Unseen, ignored, not longed to find,
Doesn’t mean I have no worth
On this overcrowded earth.

That shadow of doubt follows me, whispering how I’m not enough. The voices of insecurity speaking into my ear. This shadow pressed upon my back, hands upon my throat, over my eyes and covering my ears. How my throat will clinch up when I have that great idea or want to share an opinion. My own voice frozen in the air, in droplets falling to the floor, unheard. The self-hatred covering my eyes, distorting my own image. I look into the mirror and see a flawed little girl when a powerful woman is there. I see the weight as doubled and my height shrinking. I see the gray in my hair not the amber highlights. The wrinkles as something to be ashamed of instead of remembering what made me laugh to make those lines. My ears blocking out the compliments I receive and turning them into snide comments. I am unable to accept the opinion of others when it’s from a place of love. This shadow which has seemed to grow bigger as the age is creeping on me. Bigger with each failed relationship, each dead-end job. Growing into a monster I cannot control. Every stumble I make that shadow laughing and growing stronger. The shadow affects my every move. I find my head turned down and eyes downcast, like I’m wearing a heavy crown of shame and afraid to look someone in the eyes.
Today I want to embrace that little girl inside me. Shine my own light so bright that the shadow cannot overtake me. Learning to speak from my heart and letting it shine through. Letting others know my thoughts, ideas and dreams. Letting the light enter my eyes and see myself through a loving pair of glasses. Learning to accept each curve of my body, seeing it as the amazing machine it is. Thanking my body for being so strong and a vehicle of pleasure. Learning to listen when others tell me how much they love me. Seeing how strong I was to make it through each rough patch in life to become stronger and wiser. Today I want to love myself as I would my own daughter. Give myself the confidence of the woman I have become, letting the past go. I will let my light shine bright today pushing away the shadow of insecurity.

Softened regards from me to me.

I know I’m not entirely sure if I was always such a nervous and introverted child or if I’ve always been meticulous. The first time I heard the sound of survival, I counted the strands of my mother’s hair, ripped from the root and spread across my bedroom floor. I recall the urge to save that bushel of punishment for my secret mantle.

I remember being upset that my mother made me wear awful polyester faux denim pants with shallow pockets.

Because where was I supposed to hide our shame?

I still dream of those red and blue lights outside of our house. No 8 year old should ever have to say, “My mother can’t move” but nonetheless, I counted.

My step father said, “I hate you 12 times.” My mother cried, “Help. Stop. Don’t. I’m sorry.” in such emergency, it stills bothers me that I couldn’t keep up with the inventory. The same police officer shook his hand 4 times and said he understood. Three ribs broken. Two miles of silence on the way to Grandma’s house.

These kinds of moments used to tell me I would never be safe, or happy, or loved yet here I am. Shame is the catalyst of insecurity and I will not have it.

I’m neither the most charming or the most charismatic but I know that the guilt instilled almost shaped a worser person.

This was a backwards letter from me to my insecurity. We lived and we are thriving.

You have me thinking I was falsely diagnosed with not having autism. You have me thinking I am no good. I am no good for this world, no good to be a Christian, no good to have a full-time job, no good to have friends, to be loved by my parents and siblings and all my family. I don’t feel good enough for the love of a man thanks to you. To be able to get more than a two-year degree. I can’t even move out of my childhood home as someone who is older than a young adult. I am just falling to pieces.

I am going to be taking over. I am reclaiming my faith. As a Christian and as a person myself. You don’t get to be in control anymore. I am taking over as a strong Christian Woman. I will keep reading my bible, I will keep praying, I will get that full time Job, I will move out of this place soon, and I will get married on day.

You can tell me I’m not ok, all you want, but I won’t believe you. Tell me I can’t do all these things. Well, I believe I can and I will. I am a strong independent Women who has her family, friends, and faith on her side. I am also very confident that I am not who you say I am. I’m taking over. Me, and not you. No more insecurity.

If you say that I have autism, you may be right, but I am not letting that define me. I may have good hearing, and be very sensitive, but I am not going to sit around and be upset any more by people being rude and changing the subject on me. Especially when I am saying the wrong thing. Even if it isn’t the wrong thing, but they think it is. I am taking over. ME! Not You. ME!

Love Me (Kat)

Dear Insecurity,

For most of my life, I thought you were trying to protect me.

You told me not to stand in front of cameras because people would see every flaw. You told me to hide behind other people in group photos. You told me not to wear certain clothes, not to draw attention to myself, and certainly not to believe anyone who said I was beautiful.

You convinced me that confidence was something reserved for other people.

For years, I listened.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see what everyone else saw. I saw every pound I wanted to lose, every feature I wished I could change, every imperfection that made me feel less worthy than everyone around me. I became my own worst critic. Even when people complimented me, I found a way to dismiss it. If they saw beauty, I assumed they were being nice. If they saw confidence, I assumed they were mistaken.

The truth is, you became so loud that eventually I couldn’t tell the difference between your voice and my own.

You told me I wasn’t enough.

Not pretty enough.

Not skinny enough.

Not healthy enough.

Not lovable enough.

Over the years, those messages were reinforced by people who should have known better. Some comments were spoken directly to me. Others were implied through rejection, abandonment, and the feeling of never quite measuring up. Every hurtful experience seemed to hand you another reason to stay.

And you did.

You settled into my mind and made yourself at home.

The hardest part wasn’t that I believed you. The hardest part was that believing you felt safer than hoping you were wrong.

Because if I never believed I was beautiful, I couldn’t be disappointed when someone told me I wasn’t.

If I never believed I was worthy, I wouldn’t be surprised when someone walked away.

If I never believed I deserved love, I wouldn’t have to risk my heart.

For a long time, hiding felt safer than trying.

But something happened that you never expected.

I started showing up anyway.

Not because you disappeared.

Not because I suddenly loved every part of myself.

Not because I woke up one morning overflowing with confidence.

I showed up while still carrying you with me.

I started stepping in front of cameras. I started attending events. I started dressing up in costumes and becoming characters that felt larger than life. I discovered a version of myself that wasn’t afraid to be creative, dramatic, magical, and completely over the top.

For a few hours at a time, I became someone who took up space.

Someone who didn’t hide.

Someone who smiled for photographs.

Someone who allowed herself to be seen.

And something incredible happened.

People smiled back.

They complimented my costumes. They asked to take my picture. They celebrated my creativity. They cheered me on when I felt awkward and unsure of myself. Little by little, the walls you helped me build started to crack.

Not crumble.

Not disappear.

Just crack enough for some light to get through.

Even now, I still struggle.

I still have body dysmorphia. I still look at photos and immediately notice the things I wish I could change. I still have days when I feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I still hear your voice sometimes.

The difference is that I don’t automatically believe you anymore.

You tell me everyone is judging me.

Yet strangers ask for photos.

You tell me I’m too much.

Yet the people who matter encourage me to be even more myself.

You tell me I’m not worthy of being seen.

Yet every time I step in front of a camera, the world keeps turning.

Nothing terrible happens.

The sky doesn’t fall.

People don’t run away.

Instead, I create memories.

I create art.

I create moments I would have missed if I had continued listening to you.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that confidence isn’t the absence of insecurity.

Confidence is choosing to move forward despite it.

Confidence is wearing the outfit.

Confidence is attending the event.

Confidence is posting the photo.

Confidence is letting yourself be seen even when part of you wants to hide.

For years, I thought the goal was to silence you completely.

Now I know better.

You may always be there.

You may always whisper your doubts and fears.

But you no longer get the final say.

You no longer decide whether I take the picture.

You no longer decide whether I show up.

You no longer decide whether I am worthy.

Because despite everything you’ve told me, I have learned something powerful:

I was never waiting to become perfect before I deserved to live my life.

I deserved to live it all along.

So thank you for the lessons, but I don’t need your protection anymore.

The camera is ready.

The costume is on.

The memory is waiting to be made.

And this time, I’m taking the picture anyway.

Sincerely,

A woman who finally showed up for herself

Dear Insecurity,

I hate you most on the nights when something good happens.

You’d think those would be the easy nights.

The scholarship.

The opportunity.

The compliment.

The award.

The finished manuscript.

The phone call.

The moment somebody says they’re proud of me.

Those should be the moments you disappear.

Instead, those are the moments you get louder.

Because while everyone else is celebrating, I’m already grieving.

I am already bracing for the feeling to leave.

Already waiting for the next thing.

Already wondering if this was the last good thing that will ever happen to me.

Already trying to figure out how long I have before everyone realizes I’m not who they think I am.

Do you know how exhausting that is?

To receive something beautiful and immediately start preparing for its loss?

To never let joy finish unpacking before fear kicks in the door?

I don’t think people understand.

They think insecurity feels like self-hatred.

Mine doesn’t.

Mine feels like panic.

Mine feels like holding something precious with both hands because I’m convinced someone is coming to take it.

Mine feels like never trusting the room when people clap.

Mine feels like wondering if they would still love me if they saw how scared I am all the time.

Not scared of monsters.

Scared of being unwanted.

Scared of being forgettable.

Scared of giving everything I have and still somehow not being enough to make people stay.

That’s the part I don’t tell anybody.

The embarrassing part.

The pathetic part.

The part that makes me feel small.

I don’t actually want success.

I want proof.

Proof that I matter.

Proof that I am worth choosing.

Proof that I am worth keeping.

Proof that if I disappeared tomorrow, somebody would notice the shape I left behind.

And maybe that’s why nothing is ever enough.

Because no accomplishment can answer a question it was never designed to answer.

No award has ever looked at me and said:

“You are safe now.”

No book has ever wrapped its arms around me.

No achievement has ever promised not to leave.

So I keep collecting them.

Like a child collecting rocks to stop herself from drowning.

And every single time I reach the shore, I realize I’m still underwater.

The worst part?

I know exactly where the wound is.

I know.

I know.

I know.

It lives in the part of me that believes love can be lost if I stop earning it.

The part that thinks rest is laziness.

Need is weakness.

Failure is dangerous.

The part that treats being human like a flaw that needs correcting.

The part that cannot understand why people keep saying I deserve grace when I have spent my entire life paying for my existence.

That is the secret.

Not that I don’t love myself.

It’s worse than that.

I don’t trust love that doesn’t require suffering.

I don’t trust kindness that I didn’t earn.

I don’t trust people who stay without being given a reason.

And because of that, I keep handing people achievements instead of handing them myself.

Because achievements feel safer.

If they reject my work, it hurts.

If they reject me, I don’t know if I survive it.

So I keep performing.

Not because I want applause.

Because I am terrified of silence.

Terrified that if I stop doing, producing, helping, carrying, fixing, sacrificing—

there will be nothing left to love.

Even now, writing those words feels unbearable.

Because somewhere deep down I know exactly whose voice that is.

And I am so tired of hearing it.

I am tired of standing trial for my own existence.

I am tired of presenting evidence.

I am tired of making a case.

I am tired of treating my life like a courtroom where worthiness is always waiting on a verdict.

I am tired.

And if I’m honest, I think that’s what hurts most.

Not that I’ve spent years trying to prove I deserve love.

It’s realizing how many years I spent believing I didn’t already have it.

Dear Inner Critic,

For a long time, I listened to you.

You told me I wasn’t enough. You reminded me of my mistakes, my failures, and my scars. You whispered that I would never change, never heal, never become the person I wanted to be. You made me question my worth and doubt my strength.

But you never told the whole story.

You didn’t tell me that I would survive what tried to destroy me. You didn’t tell me that every setback taught me resilience. You didn’t tell me that God was still working in my life, even when I couldn’t see it. You didn’t tell me that my scars are proof of healing, not evidence of failure.

Today, I reclaim my power.

I am not defined by my worst moments. I am not the person I used to be. I am stronger than the battles I’ve fought, wiser than the mistakes I’ve made, and more loved than I sometimes remember.

You no longer get to decide how I see myself.

Your voice may still show up, but it no longer has authority. I choose truth over fear, faith over doubt, and hope over shame.

I am worthy.
I am growing.
I am healing.
I am free.

And your hold on me is over.

Shelly💜

To the Voice That Told Me I Wasn’t Enough,

You have been with me for as long as I can remember.

You introduced yourself in dressing room mirrors, swimming pools and family photographs.

You whispered through magazine covers, television screens, and passing comments from strangers.

You made yourself comfortable in every reflection I saw, pointing out everything you thought was wrong with me.

Every flaw, imperfection, stretch mark, body roll…

For years, I listened.

I listened when you told me my body was a problem to solve.

I listened when you convinced me that happiness was waiting on the other side of a smaller size.

I listened when you made me believe that my worth could be measured by a number on a scale.

You turned celebrations into comparisons.

I sat out on the sidelines watching life pass me by.

You made me hide from cameras, avoid opportunities, and postpone joy until some imaginary future version of myself finally became “good enough.”

You stole moments I can never get back.

But the thing about carrying someone for so long is that eventually you realize how heavy they are.

And I am tired.

I am tired of apologizing for the space I take up.

I am tired of looking at my body and only seeing what it isn’t instead of everything it is.

I am tired of allowing you to narrate a story that was never yours to tell.

I’m tired of taking you with me everywhere I go.

Because while you were busy pointing out my size, you missed my strength.

You missed the way this body kept going through heartbreak, loss, and disappointment.

You missed the courage it took to stand back up after life knocked me down. Over and over again.

You missed the laughter this body carried, the hugs it gave, the miles it traveled, the memories it made.

You saw a flawed body.

I lived a life.

For so long, I thought taking my power back meant defeating you completely.

I thought it meant waking up one day without a single doubt, a single fear, or a single insecure thought.

Maybe one day I would just love my body completely.

But now I know better.

Taking my power back doesn’t mean you disappear.

It doesn’t mean having a “perfect body”.

It doesn’t mean having to love myself completely.

It means I stop handing you the microphone.

It means that I stop giving you my power.

It means when you tell me I’m not enough, I keep showing up anyway.

It means when you tell me to hide, I step into the picture.

It means when you tell me to wait to live my life until I look better, smaller, I choose to live it now.

Not someday.

Not when my body changes.

Now.

You have spent years trying to convince me that my body is the most important thing about me.

But you were wrong.

My kindness matters more.
My resilience matters more.
My heart matters more.
My dreams matter more.
My love matters more.

And the life I build will always be bigger than the body I build it in.

So today, I am returning what was never yours.

My confidence.
My joy.
My voice.
My worth.
My power.

You may still visit from time to time. Old habits often do.

But you no longer get to decide who I am.

I have spent enough years seeing myself through your eyes.

From this moment forward, I choose to see myself through my own.

(ProWritingAid Score 100)
Sincerely,

The woman you never managed to break

Have you ever imagined how your mind would look from the outside, where all the things that haunt you are waiting? How would you see yourself? How would others?

My insecurity, symbolized by wet cement. I felt as though the concrete was hardening, drying out my skin. The more I sat with it, the more the panic would rise and create anxiety about me slowly dying waiting for the concrete to set. It was now or never. I had to decide.

My first step was standing, allowing anything that wasn’t stuck to fall away.

The hold that you held was my insecurity of engagement. Feeling anxiety about going into the world. I didn’t belong there, or so I thought. I wasn’t confident; I felt as though everyone could see the wet cement that was apparent in my mind.

I had to see my thoughts, think about my thoughts. Clearing my face with hands that were still covered, I reframed my thoughts. I have something to offer the world. I had to believe that my life had a purpose. That I had a meaning beyond my existence. I had to decide to think these thoughts.

The next step involves using water to wash away the concrete dust.

I ruminate as I wash, thinking of how I am not equipped to handle life in any capacity. I have felt invisible my whole life. By taking these steps, they will all see who I am.

What if I am not good enough? What if I fail? What if… the list can always continue.

The concrete continues to clear off my skin, and I can feel the water breaking through and reaching beneath. The water startles me initially, and then I sink into the pressure of the water.

It was hard work. The more reframing I did, the easier it became. I would catch myself as the negative voice would come to the surface. That is not the life I want to live, I would continue to remind myself.

In the beginning, it felt unbearable to step out and confront the voice that continued to keep me small. As I emerge from the water, I have washed away the cement. Although you may see the ragged remnants of what once was, I assure you I will never be that person again.

You can take the lies that you have fed me my whole life and disappear. My peace of mind holds no space for you anymore. Maybe in the past you kept me safe, but the more you stay, the more I will fade.

Concrete shroud, slowly turning into some stone angel frozen atop a crypt that once was a life. Or could have been.

Dear Insecurity,

We need to talk about the bathtub.

Not because it was my finest moment. It wasn’t.

Not because I got stuck. I did.

Not because my peaceful lavender bath ended with me resembling a stranded whale attempting a prison escape. It absolutely did.

We need to talk about the bathtub because you were relentless that day.

The moment I looked down at those beautiful bubbles and realized I had no plan for getting back out, you showed up.

“Well,” you said, “this is humiliating.”

You didn’t care that I was in pain. You didn’t care that I had chronic leukemia. You didn’t care that I was grieving the abilities I had lost. You saw an opportunity and took it.

As I lowered myself into the tub like a drunken crane operator and finally gave up and plopped in, you began your familiar speech.

“Look at you.”

“Remember when this was easy?”

“Remember when you didn’t have to think about things like this?”

For a while, I believed you.

Lying there in the warm water, I cried. Not because of the bathtub, but because of everything it represented. My body had changed. My life had changed. The future felt uncertain.

You wanted me to believe that this moment proved I was broken.

Then the water got cold.

As it turns out, self-pity has a way of disappearing when you’re trapped in a bathtub and need an escape plan.

While I was trying to figure out how to get out, you continued your commentary.

“Normal people don’t get stuck in tubs.”

“Normal people don’t need extraction strategies.”

“Normal people don’t compare themselves to Free Willy.”

To be fair, you had a point about that last one.

Still, I kept going.

I turned off the music. I studied the room. I attempted moves that would have impressed neither a physical therapist nor an Olympic gymnast. Water flew everywhere. There was swearing. There was panic. There was a moment when calling 911 seemed like a genuine possibility.

I imagined the phone call.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Poor decision-making and lavender bubbles.”

Meanwhile, you were convinced this was proof of my failure.

But here’s what you never understand.

You are obsessed with appearances.

I am concerned with survival.

You measure success by perfection.

I measure success by getting through.

You think dignity comes from never struggling.

I know dignity comes from continuing despite the struggle.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but was probably fifteen minutes, I found a way out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t elegant. It involved butt-scooching, scrambling, pulling myself up with the sink, and leaving behind a bathroom that looked like a crime scene.

But I got out.

And that’s the part you always miss.

You focus on the fact that I got stuck.

I focus on the fact that I got out.

You see weakness.

I see perseverance.

You see embarrassment.

I see determination.

You see loss.

I see adaptation.

The truth is, Insecurity, you’ve spent years trying to convince me that my worth is tied to what I can do, how I look, how productive I am, or how closely my life resembles the one I imagined.

But cancer taught me something you never wanted me to learn.

Worth and ability are not the same thing.

My value did not disappear when my health changed.

My dignity did not disappear when I needed help.

My strength did not disappear when I cried.

And my sense of humor certainly did not disappear when I nearly became a permanent fixture in my own bathtub.

You have stolen enough moments from me.

You have turned mirrors into battlefields and challenges into verdicts.

You have convinced me to question myself when I should have been celebrating how far I have come.

No more.

The lesson of the bathtub was never that I got stuck.

The lesson was that I got out.

Just like I have gotten through seventeen years of leukemia.

Just like I have gotten through grief, disappointment, fear, and uncertainty.

Not perfectly.

Not gracefully.

Sometimes soaked, bruised, exhausted, and muttering profanity.

But through it nonetheless.

So thank you for your concern, Insecurity, but I am taking my power back.

You no longer get to narrate my story.

I do.

And if my story includes getting trapped in a bathtub, then so be it.

At least it makes for a great story.

Former Bathtub Hostage,

Michelle

To those who compare themselves to others,

In 7th grade, I wore fishnet tights to school. I remember leaving the house feeling like a badass and coming home feeling like a freak.

“No offense, but what were you thinking when you got dressed this morning?”

“Are you rebelling against your parents or something?”

I was the talk of the school. I remember crawling into my mom’s minivan at the end of the day, and if I tucked myself in the backseat far enough, just maybe I could disappear. The lesson I learned that day was that I would do anything to avoid feeling like that again.

I wish I could say that school got easier, but by the time I got to high school, I had made toxic friends. Make no mistake, they were parading as good girls – AP classes and honor roll. The three of us were competitive in looks and brains, with a toxic ringleader. We compared test scores, our chair placements in band, and who had a date to the school dance. “I would feel like a slut if I wore that,” the ringleader commented as I stood in a tankini that covered my stomach, but the deep V-front exposed my nonexistent cleavage. “You are the largest out of our friend group,” she said to me, as I was a student-athlete on the swim team. “My parents would be so upset if I got a B on a test,” she told me, holding her A+.

Then I wish I could say it got easier in college, but I still managed to find some friends who could be just as toxic. I studied graphic design, and I fell into old habits with my classmates. I was smart enough to recognize the pattern this time. I remember one day I told myself to stop comparing myself to them. Stop asking their opinions on my projects. Stop comparing my talent to theirs. I remember I put my headphones in at the computer lab instead of talking to them. I just focused on me, and I started to feel more confident, more like myself again.

As I have aged, I find myself breaking away from the mold and expectations others seem to thrust on me. My husband and I work in creative fields. I think I was always worried I was disappointing my parents. I was living a life that family and friends didn’t seem to understand. My insecurity tells me the life I want is not the life I am supposed to live.

Eight years ago, my husband and I moved to a new state. We were four hours away from our parents and our friends. We both were scared to leave but excited to start a new chapter of our lives. As I gained distance in miles, I realized the pressure I was feeling from families’ expectations and friends’ opinions. It was a weight lifted off my shoulders. I started dressing and living for me.

I have learned this lesson over and over in my life. The hardest and easiest thing you can be is yourself. My insecurity makes me compare myself and my talents to others. My insecurity made me self-edit and try to make myself more palatable to those around me. I would change outfits before going out, so I wasn’t the overdressed friend. I wore baggier clothes to hide my figure. I diminished my own talents because I compared them to someone else’s. Even as I write this, I find a small voice asking me, “Who are you to write this? What story do you even have to tell?”

But I have the story of a girl who never felt like she could be herself. A girl who would edit herself to make sure she didn’t rock the hypothetical boat of others’ insecurities. Those insecurities say more about how they view themselves than they do about me. I tried to manage others’ emotions, and I took their thoughts to heart.

My mom always told me, “The world doesn’t revolve around you.” She is right. It doesn’t, but my world and my life should revolve around me. I should be the most important person in my life. I should make decisions that make me happy. I should never change how I present my body or how I want to live through the lens of what others think or how I think others perceive my life. Most days, I think I am doing just that. I think I’m making the 7th-grade version of me proud, and I think she would like all my clothes.

When you shut out the voices of doubt, your true self can come out. I hope everyone can discover who they are meant to be.

Dear Insecurity,
I don’t know why you’ve made me your mission in life. But, it needs to stop.
Since childhood, you and I have been at odds. You didn’t want me to learn how to ride a bike. You never wanted me to make new friends. When I started school, you tried to muffle my advanced learning skills. No spelling bees, no public speaking, no playing basketball or any type of sports. You always pointed out that everyone was better and more superior than me. At home, always pointed out that I was darker in complexion, and that nobody liked dark skinned, skinny black girls. You made me so insecure, that I sabotaged relationships before they even had a chance. I spent years shrinking to fitting in, never letting the world how smart I was. Just faded into the background.
I’m now in my fifties, spending time alone, reflecting on how much I’ve missed in life.
I suffered a heartattack, because I held my thoughts in, never standing up to anyone. Now that I’ve been given Another Chance in life. I want you to know, you didn’t win! I WON! I’m beautiful, strong, smart, and kind! I’m going to become an author, playwright, and finish my education! My life is so much more than you’ll ever know. I’m secure with the woman I am today. I’m Winning and quite Loudly, if I must say so myself!!