A Tale of Two Justins

A Tale of Two Justins

At the high school my kids attend I am part of a volunteer team that helps students formulate their post-high school plans. I am definitely qualified to do this because I finally know what I want to do when I grow up, I mean now that I’m a grown-up, and so now I know how to help others figure it out too. The “when” I figured it out (last year) and the “what” I want to do (be a backup dancer on tour with Justin Bieber) are not pertinent (read: impediments) to my qualifications. They are not! The point you might be missing here is that I figured out how to figure this out. I think we’ve been approaching this career search archetype all wrong.

I am aware that I am a grown-up, as determined solely by my age. Well my age and something that happened to me a few years back while watching Ellen interview El Numero Uno on my bucket list. If I don’t get to one of his concerts before I die, all of my God-given breaths will have been wasted. God and I will have words when I arrive at the pearly gates, if he chooses not to bless me so. Everything else that happens to me in opposition of the way I think it should, I am trying hard to understand and come to terms with. But to not grant me my heart’s one, true desire; what would be the meaning of that? That question was rhetorical. Please do not try to answer.

Anyhoo, I got a little excited and failed to state whom I’m speaking of here. And I just realized you might very well be thinking I’m still talking about Justin Bieber. You might not have switched gears with me and understand that I’m talking about Justin Timberlake. Yes, I am swapping Justins around here like I’m dealing you a game of Three-card Monte, but no, I don’t have some weird obsession with Justins. I can prove this because I know plenty of other Justins and while perfectly nice men all, they’re just “meh” to me.

So anyhoo again, what happened was, as I was listening to Ellen and Justin (Timberlake) banter back and forth I remember thinking to myself “oh, he’s such a sweet boy.” Wait, self, stop. Wha? What is it that you’re thinking? That this grown-ass man is a sweet boy? Oh honey, you is OLD!

Until that day I did not know that I was old, and thus, a grown-up. And for the record, I am only eight years older than JT. So I don’t know why I feel this way towards him. I’m guessing it’s a protective thing. He’s a national treasure and I want him to stay safe and sound until I can make it to his show. Also there’s no denying his sweetness. Thank you Justin, for this very timely example of just how sweet you are. But in fact, until that moment I had never stopped I feeling like I was still a teenager, in spirit.

I remember commenting on this phenomenon to friends over the years, wondering if I had unknowingly encountered some sort of spiritual fountain of youth. A good number of my friends told me they felt the exact same way. One friend relayed that she had always been intrigued by this same mindset as well, and that she had asked her 71-year-old mama when she had first started to feel like a grown-up. Her mama replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll let you know when it happens!” I was buoyed by this and thought I might never feel old. And I had a good thing going there, until JT burst that bubble. Whatev. I’d rather spend two hours front row and center (or in the very last seat in the very back row of very the highest section) at his concert than a lifetime in Neverland.

I’ve always felt big angst about not knowing what I wanted to do when I grew up. Our society likes to dial this in for kids around age six. As if having just learned to write your name also means you can now write your chosen profession down next to it. I’ve been lagging behind, and once I realized I was in fact a grown-up and still not headed down a “proper” career path, my anxiety increased. But a few years ago, I latched on to a new concept, presented to me by my son. He came home from school one day and announced he wanted to be “happy” when he grows up. Full stop. I thought, yasss!!!, me too. Gosh, it’s really so simple, I wish I would have come to this realization sooner.

But as I continued to think on it, almost never a good thing for me, I realized being happy speaks more to what I want to be than what I want to do. “Do” and “be” may seem interchangeable when we ask what people want to “do/be.” Because if the “be” is a teacher, then we know the “do” is to educate. We can make inferences. But we can’t write “happy” in the previous employment field on job applications. And we still have to find the “what” that will make us happy. We can’t just “be” happy, something has to happen to make us happy. Right? And happiness never lasts, it’s fleeting because it’s dependent on things that don’t last. The angst came back.

Or could it work the same with happy after all? If we decide we want to “be” happy, the “do” can be anything that brings us joy. And it doesn’t have to be static, the “do” can change as we change. The distinction comes from learning what makes us joyful and plugging into that, and that we don’t have to answer the question of what we want to “do/be” with a realistic career goal. The way we answer the question can change. The paradigm can shift.The angst can ease.

A couple of years ago, at a TEDx event, I had the pleasure of listening to Emilie Wapnick explain what it means to be a multipotentialite. Never heard of one? She’s aware, because she made up the word. As she began to define it, she began to define me, the way I saw myself. Sans the angst. She had already sifted through her own angst and had arrived at content and empowered. Someone got me! And thought I was valuable to society, even though I lacked clear affinity for one long-term profession over another.

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“A multipotentialite is a person who has many different interests and creative pursuits in life.

Multipotentialites have no “one true calling” the way specialists do. Being a multipotentialite is our destiny. We have many paths and we pursue all of them, either sequentially or simultaneously (or both).

Multipotentialites thrive on learning, exploring, and mastering new skills. We are excellent at bringing disparate ideas together in creative ways. This makes us incredible innovators and problem solvers.

When it comes to new interests that emerge, our insatiable curiosity leads us to absorb everything we can get our hands on. As a result, we pick up new skills fast and tend to be a wealth of information.”

Emilie’s TED talk remains one of my favorites of all time. It saved me from myself. From those damaging thoughts that clawed at me. The ones that told me I was not enough. That without an ongoing workplace passion, I’m underserving humanity and not living up to my full potential. Finally feeling ok about the way I approach (the multitude of) jobs I become interested in, freed me of my shackles enough to help me realize we can answer the question of we want to do when we grow up very differently than in the expected way. Not with just a career choice, or with what we can actually do, but with what we want to do. Which is indeed how the question is posed anyway. How come we never pay attention to that?

I want to be a backup dancer on tour with Justin Bieber.

Why I Can Never Actually Be a Backup Dancer On Tour With Justin Bieber:

I am a terrible dancer. I have no rhythm. No real cohesive pattern to the way I flail my arms and lurch about with my legs. I get self-conscious when I dance in full view of other people because I know I’m not doing it well. I recently became aware I’m supposed to get some solid hip action going, so I’ve been working on that. I’m thinking if I can master the Shakira thing, it will camouflage what the rest of my body parts are doing. Because hips don’t lie. Also, I can’t go on tour, I am a wife and a mom. I am still needed here at home, where my tenderhearts are. And the final nail in the coffin is that I’m well over twice the age of Justin and his dancers. It would roll like a “one of these is not like the other” segment on Sesame Street. Not sure that’s the vibe Justin is going for.

Why None of That Matters:

Because dancing brings me joy. Full-fledged, unbridled glee. Every single time I do it. I can’t stop smiling, I lose myself. All my cares melt away. Much like it does for these people.

But why on stage, in front of millions, since I stink at it? Concert atmosphere is electrifying. The adrenaline that’s generated is exchanged, and whether audience member or performer, you get an incredible rush. I want that. The combination of that rush with the joy I feel while dancing, would be heaven on earth. For me. And remember, this is all about want to, not can do.

And why dance with this Justin and not the other? It’s another protective thing I guess. The reason dates back to years ago when I watched Justin Bieber’s concert film Never Say Never with my kids. At that point, his popularity was just beginning to eclipse the sun and I found myself rooting for him. We all know how things can go for child stars. I worried about him.

As he grew older I had a premonition that his life is going to play out similar to how Princess Diana’s did, or some close approximation of it. A life cut short by the senseless need to have Google Earth zeroed in on celebrity at all times. I hope I was wrong, but nothing I’ve seen to date has given me much comfort that he’ll end up ok. I just want him to be left in peace and out of the fray, so he can find his zen. I want him to have some quiet in all the noise, so he can hear the still small voice that guides each one of us in the way we should go.

He is not his mistakes and he is redeemable, we all are. But he needs more positive influences. I’m a mama. Mothering is what I do, and so what’s one more Justin, I mean young person, to look after? And, he puts on an amazing show! Yes, I know he’s 23 years old as I write this and thus doesn’t actually qualify as a young person in need of extra mothering, but I think I’ve established I have a weird age tic. It works like this; however old you are when I first meet you or encounter you, that’s how old I think you are forever. Can’t fix it. I first noticed this with my friend Shannon. She is 25. And this is why I still see Justin Timberlake as a Mouseketeer.

So I want to be a backup dancer on tour with Justin Bieber. Yes, I realize I sound ridiculous, and what’s wrong with that? Isn’t it also ridiculous to start asking children what they want to do when they grow up before they can possibly know? Isn’t it ridiculous to burden them with the pressure they feel to figure it out before they can even drive a car, or vote? Even for us grown-ups, isn’t it a ridiculous expectation to know what we want to do and to gear our lives towards that goal when single-profession careers aren’t even the norm any longer? So what’s the difference?

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Even JT wants to be a backup dancer, because that shit is FUN!

The difference for me is that I’ve taken all the stress out of this question, and all of a sudden it becomes so easy to reply. Try it! What do YOU want to do, if and when you grow up? Don’t put any qualifiers on your response. Just answer from the gut, or from your heart. Who cares if you can actually ever do it. There is so much fun and peace in finally answering that question with what you want to do. There is still and will always be plenty of things we can do in life. Let’s focus on what we want to do every once in a while, even if it’s silly.

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Photo credits: (Top) Billboard Magazine, (Middle) TED.com, (Bottom) Billboard Magazine

 

 

 

Are You Sure About That?

Are You Sure About That?

I have an incredibly hard time getting through self-help books or articles, no matter how great the content or how badly I need to absorb its particular wisdom and use it to try to ease on down, ease on down the road of life. Stories are what grab my attention and won’t let go. Stories are how I relate with the world and back to it. The only kind of self-help I can offer you is my special brand of don’t-try-this-at-home type anecdotes. My stories. Or, if you refuse to listen and do indeed try it at home, I can also then offer up how you might try to fix it.

For metaphorical example: don’t spill your red wine on your carpet. Just trust me on this one. You don’t want to go there. Keep it in your glass. Or drink it fast. But then you’ll just refill it and we’ll be right back where we started. But if you do spill, don’t worry, I’ve got-choo. Go straight for the table salt, gobs of it, and pour it all over the red wine. Leave it there, overnight. Then vacuum it all up in the morning. IT REALLY WORKS! (Mostly. In full disclosure, it might leave a subtle reminder of where you’ve been in life and where you don’t want to go back to). And this is why I always have six large containers of salt in my pantry, metaphorically.

Anyhoo, during my last full-time gig, at a lovely branding agency owned and operated by inspirational people, our troop was exposed to a unique team building process called Culture In Action, developed by a company called We, Inc. The process was designed and engineered to help companies work on their culture, so their culture can work for them. This was good stuff, people. If you are a business and you have a team, you will benefit from what you’ll encounter using Culture In Action.

During this process that proved invaluable to our staff, an illuminating notion was voiced that I have never let go of (pun intended for later, wait for it…). Since then, it’s been a guiding principle for me, when I can remember to let it guide. The concept was: to hold on to certainly lightly. Mic drop here, yes? Do you feel it too?

Does that click for you? Let me say it again. Hold on to certainty lightly. Do you ever feel like you are right? Like the other person is wrong? Like you need to make your point and get them to see things your way? I’m sure you’ve heard cautionary sentiments about the need to be right. Like, do you want to be right or do you want to be happy? Because we can’t always be both. If we put our need to be right and recognized as such over our relationships, we won’t end up happy in the long run.

Insisting that we know we are right, even if we are, works to close our eyes to others’ perspectives and views. Sometimes these different ways of seeing the world are the missing pieces to our puzzles. The pieces that fall on the floor and then get kicked under the couch. But if we find them or become aware of them and we still have the puzzle out on the table, when we use the missing pieces and the puzzle is suddenly complete, the skies open up and the angels sing. Well not really, but it does satisfy, doesn’t it? And if the opposite is true, if we put that puzzle back in the box without finishing it, or we throw it in the trash, and THEN we find those missing pieces, the ensuing frustration of an opportunity lost is palpable. We soooo wish we had become aware of those missing pieces sooner.

It’s the same with other people’s ideas of what’s right, or at least what could work just as well. When we recognize their validity and our previous ignorance of it, it’s a palm of the hand to the forehead, uff-da! kind of moment. Yes, that does work. Hmmm. I didn’t think it would. I wasn’t open to that. In fact, my way is not the best way, I can see that now. Actually, I was wrong, I wasn’t even right. I just thought I was. Whoops. And then, the need to apologize, and that’s not always easy.

I grasped on to the concept of holding on to certainty lightly and realized how much I could benefit from employing it regularly because it brought to mind an “incident.” The don’t-try-this-at-home kind. Years ago, I was at the gym during my lunch break. A normal routine for me. So smacking of routine that I put my stuff in the same locker every day. Hopped on the same treadmill every day. Struggled hard to stay on said treadmill every day. B O R I N G. Watched the same lady work her way around the Nautilus machine circuit every day while she read a book she held in one hand and thus only ever lifted weights with the other. Became startled by the same jarring growls and grunts that emanated from the free weights area every day. And so on, and so on.

One day after my workout I could not get back in to my locker. I had forgotten my padlock combination. This was way before my memory became SAF, so this was a unique event, not at all yet the norm like it is today. Today, I would never even attempt to try to remember a lock combination. I know my limits. Exasperated and running out of time to get back to work, I had to call in a staff member for help. A nice gentleman at the front desk followed me back to my locker with bolt cutters and popped the lock right off for me. But not before asking, are you sure this is your lock? Um, yeah. I’m certain. What a strange question. Then I opened the locker and felt my stomach flip when I realized the contents inside did not belong to me. WTF? And then it hit me, then, not until that moment, just a tad too late.

When I had arrived that day, there were a couple of ladies chatting away in front of the locker I normally used. Not wanting to interrupt them just so that I could keep channeling Rain Man, I had gone to the other end of the locker room and had used a different locker. And then promptly forgot I ever did that.

Only one thing to do here. I summoned up the courage to look the nice gentleman in the eye and I said, “thank you.” The fix-it here, if you go against my advice and try something similar at home, is to skedaddle on out of there and never go back. Call in to the gym when you know the answering machine, I mean voicemail, will pick up and then cancel your membership. And just let the nice gentleman do the explaining to the mad lady that will stomp her way up to the front desk demanding to know WTF her locker is doing busted open. It’s his job after all, to deal with angry customers, he works there, not you. And then try not to worry about it too much, because you don’t really like going there anyway. It’s time for a change, way overdue in fact.


Hold on to certainty lightly.


Now, you know I’m imperfect, so sometimes I forget to employ this maxim. And maybe you will too, if you decide using it is for you. You might stumble, you might fall. But don’t worry. God, Karma and the Universe will help you get right back on that horse.

For a real world example of the kind of assistance they can offer, just the other day my husband and I hopped in the car, both of us with coffee mugs in hand. I looked over and noticed his was a regular ceramic mug, the kind used for drinking AT HOME, not in the car. DUH! Honey, that’s going to spill, you can’t even put it in the cup holder, because it has a handle. So you’ll have to hold it, while you drive, and that’s not safe. You’re putting our lives at risk with that mug. Honey, you really should be using a travel cup, like the one I have here in my hand, with a LID on it, so it won’t spill. I said all this while I was using my free hand to buckle my seatbelt, and my hand slipped and lost its grip on the buckle causing my coffee mug-holding hand to have some sort of twin-like involuntary jerk reflex and I spilled my coffee. Out of the proper travel mug, with the lid, that prevents spilling.

The following is a transcript of the acceptance speech I gave on stage at the FIMA’s (Foot In Mouth Awards). “I’d like to thank God, Karma and the Universe for this award today. For all of their undying support and for giving me the opportunity to have to apologize for my certainty. Again. I’ve already won so many of these FIMA’s over the years, surely it’s someone else’s turn. All of the other nominees are so well-qualified and so deserving of this honor. But you’ve chosen me, yet again. You like me, you REALLY LIKE ME! Thank you so much for helping me to remember that I must hold on to certainty lightly, or it will squirm and bite me.” I held the award up high, then kissed it for good measure. And then forgot which way to exit the stage.

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An Introduction

An Introduction

It’s suggested to new bloggers that your first post tell readers why you are here and what they can expect to find in your blog. Makes good sense to me. So here goes. I am here because Glennon told me to do it. It wasn’t me. It was her. She did it.

A dear friend told me I simply must read Love Warrior by Glennon Doyle Melton. This friend is like a sommelier of books and so when she tells you to read something, you read it. The force is strong in her and ignoring her book suggestions would be like ignoring Warren Buffett’s advice on mutual funds. Anyhoo, I read Love Warrior and my world went fuzzy and out of focus and then sharp and crisp. I was like Jason Bourne and someone had flipped a switch in me. I felt an immediate pull towards Glennon and her writing. Like I had known her forever but never knew I did. I have a kinship with this woman whom I never met like you would not believe.

I will not go so far as to say we are like the same person, but we might be just one gene mutation off. Yes, I exaggerate, but I am trying to explain to you just how much I relate to her. For starters, we each have a similar traumatic experience in our pasts and nothing bonds you to another human being like shared trauma (or even perceived shared trauma, still counts!). When she described her heartache in Love Warrior I felt like I was reliving it with her. I had in fact lived parts of it myself. I felt her hurt. As much as anyone can feel anyone else’s pain and if you have large empathy, that’s a lot.

I Googled this woman so I could soak in some more of her and found her other book, Carry On, Warrior, and I read it too. And I did know her, I did! Virtually. She is the force and the honesty and the humorous wit behind the wonderful blog Momastery.com. I realized I had read some of her posts over the years but since I do not have a lot of stick-to-it-iveness in many areas of life, I was not a regular reader of her blog. Oh the horrors when I think of what I have missed. I am going to make those blog archives my bitch. Real soon.

Early on in Carry On, Warrior, Glennon spoke to me (directly to me, via the book, both things are true) when she wrote the following:

“If, anywhere in your soul, you feel the desire to write, please write. Write as a gift to yourself and others. Everyone has a story to tell. Writing is not about creating tidy paragraphs that sound lovely or choosing the “right” words. It’s just about noticing who you are and noticing life and sharing what you notice. When you write your truth it is a love offering to the world because it helps us feel braver and less alone.”

She had me at “please write.” But she went on to say:

“If you feel something calling you to dance or write or paint or sing, please refuse to worry about whether you’re good enough. Just do it. Be generous. Offer a gift to the world that no one else can offer: yourself.”

Word. Mic drop.

She is not the first person to tell me to write. She is just the first person I listened to. My husband has encouraged me to write for as long as I can remember. I “p-shawed” him. What does he know? He is supposed to tell me I am wonderfully talented and then encourage me to use that talent. I can not put stock in his endorsement. He’s biased.

There have been others too. I paid them no attention. I had made a list a mile long of reasons I shouldn’t write. And that is what I have paid attention to. Phooey. I want my money back. That list is a liar. It duped me and I fell for it. It was inspired by fear, insecurity, anxiety, uncertainty and lack of faith. I despise that fraudulent list now, it’s garbage, it’s dead to me.

Just in case you will find my list helpful in deciding to follow Glennon’s plea too, I’ll give you a few my reasons off the top.

My dumb but maybe very common reasons not to write:

  • I don’t know how. – Um, yes I do. But I was being technical. One of my biggest regrets is being a shining star in my English classes in high school. I passed my AP test in Lit. & Comp. and thus tested right out of needing to take writing in college. I used the free time to add in science courses because I thought I wanted to go into healthcare. Well I didn’t and I don’t. But I did and I do want to write. I let lack of formal training and “proper” instruction hold me back. Shame on me! No shame is bad, very, very bad. Love on me! It’s ok.
  • What if no one wants to read my writing or thinks it is any good? – What if. Oh the what ifs. If ifs and buts were candies and nuts we’d all have a Merry Christmas, or something to that effect, yes? In Carry on, Warrior Glennon explained in a way I finally understood that your gift is something that brings YOU joy when you do it, even if it is hard for you to do. So that’s why I am finally ready to call writing my gift, because of what happens to me when I do it. I become joyful. Not happy per se, but full of joy and joy is the bomb! I get it now. Your gift is for you. It is from God. Where all good things come from. Using it for the benefit of others can be a natural extrapolation and important to do, but we are the intended first recipients of our gifts. Sometimes it’s just hard to see our gifts for what they are because they can feel too ordinary. So it doesn’t matter much whether anyone ever reads my writing or appreciates it. Because I’m really writing for Joy. I’m writing for God.
  • What if I write something that hurts someone’s feelings. – Too bad, so sad. Seriously though, I would never write for the purpose of causing pain, exactly the opposite in fact. To bring myself joy and to connect with others. Sometimes you wanna be, where you can see, your troubles are all the same… By summoning my bravery and telling my truths I can quit hiding and begin to heal and if I share my stories and someone sees their pain inside of my pain, then maybe they will feel less alone. I own everything that happens to me. I can tell my stories. If people wanted me to write more warmly about them, they should have behaved better.
  • There are AMAZING writers out there and they are SO funny, wise, insightful, innovative, helpful, on point, relevant and creative. I can’t compete with them. – Writing is not a competition. Well actually in 1st grade it was, and I won! I produced a lovely and effective environmental campaign featuring Hootie, the Tootsie Pop Owl. My tagline was “Give a hoot, don’t pollute.” But really, writing is about expressing your unique self and using your gift. As noted above, your gift brings YOU joy, first and foremost. If that’s all it ever accomplishes, it’s still worth doing.
  • Fear of plagiarism. I read a ton of books, articles, blogs, posts, memes, emails, texts and order comfirmations from Amazon. What if I write someone else’s words, and forgetting where they came from, I think they are my own? This is still a valid fear. I’m a middle-aged mom and so my memory can not be trusted, it is shady as fuck. But, since it will never be my intention to commit petty theft of words, I will work hard to give credit where credit is due and ask for forgiveness if I make a blunder. If I ever get to hang out with a bunch of experienced writers, this will be one of the first questions I ask them “how do you know you wrote your words down and not mine?”
  • Is there anything left to write about? – There is nothing new under the sun. According to the bible. And my brain when it over-thinks writing. But maybe there is still a new way to write about all the old stuff. I go back to what Glennon said to me. (I mean what she wrote to me, in her book). She told me I have one gift to offer the world that no one else can offer: myself. And maybe my take on things won’t be that much different from so and so’s but sometimes it’s good to hear things over and over and over again until they finally sink into our thick skulls. (Whoops, I was writing to myself there, not to you, you are not in trouble. I don’t think you are thick-headed).
  • Our stories are not for everyone. – Thank you for reminding us of that, Brené Brown. Over-sharing is a concern. Being misunderstood is possible. There are people out there that may try to use my words against me. Not everyone is for me. But I am ready to push this fear aside just like all the others. There are enough people out there that are behind me and God is at the top of that list, so who can REALLY be against me?
  • I’m busy. – Yeah, yeah, aren’t we all. I’ll stop here with the list because I think you get the idea and the reasons get really weak from here on out.

The “Why”

So I will write, to clear my head and to make sense of my thoughts as they morph into written words. And then I will be brave and share the only thing of value that I actually possess, myself, in hopes of connecting on a deeper level with even just one of you. It is my observation that life sucks. And then it doesn’t. And then it does again. But if we can grasp hands and sing “we’re all in this together” like we’re cast members of High School Musical, maybe we will feel just a little stronger, a little better equipped, a little less alone.

The “What”

Perfect is gross. But if you disagree and think Perfect is grand, then this blog and its Imperfect and not yet thoroughly definable content will not be for you. I know for certain that Perfect is not my friend. We tried to become close in the past, when we were young and we thought we needed each other. We were happy together for a time. Together we felt strong and courageous. We thought we could conquer our common enemies; insecurity, anxiety, shame and loneliness. But our too-close friendship hurt those around us. While Perfect and I focused all of our attention on each other, our families and other friends felt “less than” in our presence. Once I recognized this hurt we caused, I felt it too. Nothing hurts quite as bad as hurting someone you love.

No friendship of mine should serve to cause anyone else pain. I needed to break up with Perfect. Perfect didn’t want to let me go. We wrestled it out and for a while we were at an impasse. But then something miraculous happened. I realized that Perfect didn’t actually exist. And poof, she was gone. She had been an imaginary friend all along. I had conjured her when I felt alone and misunderstood. When I felt shunned and unable to fit in anywhere. So I befriended her in hopes she would protect me and keep me safe. She was tough as nails while I was weak. My biggest hope was that she would make me feel worthy.

Well instead, Perfect was sly and deceptive and closed me off to other people. She isolated me and made sure I was unapproachable. When she was finally gone it freed me up to others and I met Imperfect. I was open to her and she became my new BFF. I love her because she is SOOOO real. We are tight. We go everywhere together. The best part about our friendship is that I know it will last my whole life, nothing will come between us. I take that back, the really best part is that we make everyone around us feel accepted. People feel “normal” and more at ease around us. They feel like there is room for them, that they fit in with us. Not all the time, because Imperfect and I don’t always get everything right. But even this makes people feel better about themselves. It’s funny how our friendship works.

Imperfect doesn’t really make me feel worthy either, but what she does make me feel is like I am enough. Didn’t see that one coming. That’s what you can expect to find here in this blog. Me, Imperfect, and room for you too. We hope you think we are enough and we hope you’ll join us, we need you.

 

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