The thing that rocks about getting older as a woman is that I quit giving a crap what other people think about my choices. I guess you could call it bitterness or adrenal collapse, but whatever it is, the idea of other people defining what works for me just begins to seem – I don’t know – untenable.
Take Facebook. Recently an acquaintance messaged me and asked me if I was always so kind. I responded that I had always been a people pleaser, but lately being kind was coming from a place of sincerity. I thought it was a great question but came to find the next day that she had intended the comment as an insult. Since I’m about 34 years away from 8th grade, I didn’t spend the time to over-analyze the drama. I just blocked her.
A preference for the quieter path of neglect leading to apathy will probably always be my default: it somehow seems more civilized than the social media equivalent of murder. But you know what? I don’t need to fight people who misunderstand me or want to pick fights.
There is a certain appeal to being all things to all people. Eventually though it is exhausting. It’s like not being able to go to sleep at night because I am afraid I might miss out on something. There’s generally hell to pay the next day.
Danielle LaPorte recently wrote a line in a poem: “We change our names so that a reality that we don’t want will let us in the door.”
When we spend our time becoming adept at changing masks to fit into other peoples’ ideas of who we should be, we neglect becoming all of who we are.
Tell me about how you commit to becoming more of yourself.