“I am good enough,” the yellow sticky note reads in thick black ink.
There are a few of them.
One on my computer monitor. Another on my bathroom mirror. One inside my work notebook, so I see it when I open it.
It was my therapist’s idea.
A mantra. An affirmation.
It’s meant to rewire my brain, where my inner voice for so long has told me the opposite. “You aren’t good enough or pretty enough or smart enough or . . . fill in the blank enough.”
Or, my voice provides the opposite end of the spectrum – that I am too much. “Too tall, too loud, too assertive, too masculine.”
Of course, all negative inner voices come from external input at some point in our lives. We don’t just wake up one day and decide we’re a piece of shit and not worthy.
I can track some of my self-esteem issues to specific events in my life, like moving and starting at new schools 13 times in 18 years. Or, being told I was stupid by a rude biology teacher. Or being teased endlessly for being a 12-year-old girl who stood at 5’8” and barely over 100 pounds.
It doesn’t matter how much I’ve matured, learned, experienced or grown as a person personally and professionally. My brain is often locked at 12 or 13, where every external cue I received told me I was not good enough.
The dichotomy between self-image and reality
I am good enough!
Right now, I am staring at these words on my monitor, wondering why I still don’t believe this about myself.
I’m 35 years old. I have a good job. Beautiful children. I just bought my first home.
And yet, I know, fundamentally, I think it’s all a ruse. At some point, everyone will find me out. I’ve just been playing a role on the stage, as I’ve done since I was four years old. I am a good actress.
Of course, the imposter syndrome is a well known issue that the vast majority of people on this planet feel at one point or another. However, it’s not so much that I feel like an imposter. I just feel inferior.
If I was to step back and see myself from the outside, the facts would not align with my perception.
This affirmation is not to just be read casually once in a while. No, I am to intentionally say the words out loud as often as I can. Up to 100 times a day.
Everyday, when I get up in the morning and go to the bathroom, I look into the mirror and read my affirmation. I feel ridiculous, even though no one is around to hear me.
However, I can tell it is working.
After days of reading and stating it to myself and the world, something is changing. Just a flicker, like a candle when it’s just lit and starts to glow. Not fully formed, but a growing warmth in my core, starting to believe that this person is good enough. That I am worthy of all I have, and none of this is luck.
The power of personal affirmation
I was reminded of the first time I exercised this intentional affirmation, some 20 years ago, during a few recent conversations. These interactions reminded me how many people suffer from feeling worthless. Fundamentally, believing they are not good enough.
First, I met with a professional woman introduced to me by a mutual friend who asked to speak with me and get some career guidance.
This woman built a successful consulting business that was acquired. In addition, she had just recently been offered a job with Amazon. And yet, as we talked, it was clear to me that she did not feel worthy. The alpha-male tech industry has seeped into her psyche, making her question herself and her capabilities.
“I want to be a powerful, impactful woman like you,” she said with all sincerity.
“No, you don’t,” I replied without hesitation. “You want to be the powerful, impactful woman YOU are.”
“In many ways, you have already surpassed me,” I stated. “Look at the facts of your success. You built a business from scratch and made it so successful a larger, regional company acquired you. Now, you are taking all your knowledge of automation, cloud computing, and IT infrastructure and applying it to the largest public cloud provider in the world.”
“Anyone looking at you from the outside would be amazed by you,” I added.
Of course, I had to add a sarcastic jab: “Oh, and I’ve heard Amazon hires real dummies.”
Even the most successful people doubt themselves
I am POWERFUL!
It’s the same story.
Over time, her inner voice allowed external negative input to become the truth. Now, her own self-identity believed she was not good enough, not powerful enough.
We then talked about intentional affirmation, and about my sticky notes.
“I know it sounds simple, but just try it,” I encouraged her.
“What do you want to say to yourself to start to change your inner critic to inner champion,” I asked.
She thought about it for a bit.
“How about, ‘I am powerful’?” she asked.
I hesitated. The word “powerful” took on a negative meaning in my head.
As if she read my mind, she explained, “not as powerful as in greedy power or aggressive power, but powerful as in I am in command of my own story and of my own life. I can do this.”
“I love it,” I agreed.
Using intentional affirmation to stop feeling worthless
I am Worth It!
The second recent situation was with my son, who is struggling with his own confidence and self-esteem. As any mother will tell you, there is nothing more heartbreaking than watching your own child feel unworthy of this world.
We talked about this, and while I don’t feel comfortable sharing the details of our private, emotional conversation, I will share the outcome.
He decided to write down an affirmation on a bright green sticky note and try stating it out loud as many times as possible each day.
His affirmation is: “I am worth it.”
Simple. Powerful.
He is so worthy of this world, and I can’t wait for him to believe in this amazing worthy person we see and love.
Taking a stand for yourself
What is your inner voice telling you?
Could you use a little positive, intentional affirmation?
You have the power in your own voice, actions and words to change the current in your brain from negative to positive.
What affirmation will you write down on sticky notes and repeat at least ten times (or a hundred) per day?
Share it with us in the comments if you are willing, so we can share in your journey of affirmation.
You are good enough. You are worthy.
It’s time to start believing what the rest of the world knows!
My childhood self-identity was fear and uncertainty
I am shocked out of deep sleep by loud noises coming from down the hall.
My mother is screaming.
From my bedroom, I can tell she is in the kitchen, as I hear cupboard doors slamming and dishes rattling.
I feel my heart racing, and I can’t breathe.
Is she angry at me? I wonder with panic. Please don’t let her be mad at me.
My bedroom door isn’t locked. So, I lie, frozen, waiting to see if she makes a move towards my bedroom.
No. Not me, I realize with relief – that only lasts a second. She’s screaming at my father.
She’s slamming the cutlery drawer – metal crashing off metal. In her fury, she is threatening to kill him, as she storms down the hall to their bedroom.
I hear him pleading with her, trying to calm her down. She’s out of control.
I feel no sorrow; only relief. A general relief that her suffering with cancer is over. Relief that she will no longer have to endure her family trying to push religion on her in her final days. Also, relief for my father that he will no longer need to be a 24/7 caregiver. More importantly, relief that he will now be free of her and her vicious ways.
For me, I am relieved that I will never again experience the discord between reality and my mother’s Norman Rockwell expectations of our family, and the soul crushing pressure that came with it. Relieved that the insufferable charade has finally come to an end.
Beyond relief, I feel guilt. Guilt that I am not grief-stricken. From the outside, people think I am being stoic. But the truth is I’m just not sad.
I sit with this guilt, because I can’t express my true feelings without facing harsh judgement. Therefore, I am alone with my relief, guilt, and lack of sorrow.
Searching for answers only brings more questions
A few months after my mother’s death, I called one of my mother’s sisters to ask her for the family medical history. I need this information before her seven brothers and sisters all inevitably fade into the ether.
As the conversation ends, she comments on my strength.
“I know how hard your mother could be to deal with,” she says.
In my shocked silence she adds: “She had her problems and always was a handful.”
A handful? I repeat to myself, incredulously.
But before I can even respond to her comment, I am suddenly catapulted into one of those movie montages where the floor drops out. I’m floating in a time popsicle, while my life’s memories flash all around me.
She’s beating me with a wooden spoon.
“You’re an ungrateful bitch!” She yells.
I’m hiding in my bedroom trying not to soil myself, because it’s not safe to go to the bathroom right now.
I’m cowering in the dark, struggling to find the courage to call the police.
Is she trying to tell me they knew? That my mom’s family was aware of what I was living through? I question with alarm.
They knowingly left me there, a defenseless child?
I am stunned by this sudden knowledge, and the weight of it is staggering.
With this new understanding, I feel more alone and abandoned than I ever have in my life.
An orphan adrift in a sea of mixed emotions
I am 45 years old, and my father is dead.
Honestly, I’m in shock. His passing was unexpected, sudden, and it feels surreal. As a result, I feel an immense burden as I start taking care of his estate and all that it entails.
However, when I pause to take a breath, I notice another feeling deep within me. A profound and unexpected sense of loss.
Not so much a loss of my father. Rather, I’ve lost my sense of place. I’ve been cast adrift. The one thing that still anchored me to this world is gone.
For good or bad, my parents are the reason I exist. I walk on this earth because of them, and now they are both gone. It is unsettling to be an only child with no parents.
I didn’t think I would feel like this.
For one, I have been on my own a long time, both figuratively and literally. Plus, I was only slightly closer to my father than I was to my mother. He and I were alike in many ways, but I harboured a deep resentment towards him that, as the other adult in our household, he never protected me.
Once I was old enough to comprehend my circumstances, I quickly realized that whenever I was the target of my mother’s ire, he was content to allow it, because it took the focus off of him.
He would shake his head and sigh, wandering off to bed at 8pm. He just wanted to keep his head down and make it through another day. However, this left me stranded with her and her deranged world view, allowing her to falsely accuse me of a myriad of sins and endlessly berate me.
Wondering where I belong and who I am
Prior to his death, I assumed that when my father passed, I would feel about the same as I did when my mother died. It would be a moment in time, tinged with guilt.
Probably, I would feel like a weight had been lifted. I would cease to fret over how to take care of him as he aged. I wouldn’t have to make those cross-country treks to visit him. The visits, during which I sat in his house staring at the walls as our conversation ran dry. We watched re-runs of Murder She Wrote and old CBC classics, while I watched my father cringe at the interruption of his routine.
He tried to do what he thought was expected, as the host, but it only made me feel like a burden.
I thought his death would be the closing of a difficult chapter and I would simply move on. However, in reality, I feel empty. Like I no longer belong to this universe.
It’s ironic, feeling this way now. As for decades, I felt like I didn’t belong in my own family. I didn’t fit in. We didn’t share the same values or beliefs.
However, with my father gone, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. I am overwhelmed with a sense of self-doubt. Not knowing the purpose or value of my own existence.
With this, an unexpected void emerges. A hollow that isn’t filled no matter how many phone calls and appointments I have with the accountant or Estate lawyer. There isn’t enough paperwork in Probate Court to close the gap I now feel.
Finding myself in my ancestors’ stories
With this hole in my life and my soul, I find myself drawn to my family history in a way that I never have been before. Without the presence of my parents, past generations take on a new hue. A new hope, even.
The barrier that always existed between me and my ancestors has dissolved, and I am filled with curiosity. Where did my ancestors come from? Which ships brought them across the ocean to start their new lives? Where did they settle? What are their stories?
As I delve deeper into my family’s history, my connection to my roots grows stronger. Through this research, I have discovered that my childhood home, the house I have inherited, was built on land that has been in my family since 1826.
I collect all of the deeds, which document how the land was subdivided and passed down through the generations. Surprisingly, I learn that one of my great grandfathers was a bigamist and spent some time in jail after being convicted. This family secret emerged from my obsessive investigation and was confirmed in an email conversation with one of his daughters from his third marriage.
My family did not know that this branch of the family tree even existed, and yet I have been able to connect with my grandmother’s half-sister and share some family history.
Bridging a broken past to a hopeful future
Sadly, my grandmother passed away before I was born, and I can’t help but wonder what she would make of this new information.
I now know that one of my great-great-great-grandfathers died at home on Steadman Street in Moncton, New Brunswick in 1920. Seventy years later, in 1992, I lived in the house next door. A strange coincidence that brought me so close to my own family history without me even knowing it at the time.
Stories such as these are helping me forge new links between me and my extended family. They reinforce the foundation previously crumbling beneath me, and they remind me that I do belong.
I have a place in this world, and it was carved out for me by those who came before me.
Finding Allies in my extended family
Since my father’s death, I’ve served as the spokesperson for my nuclear family within the much larger family framework.
To be honest, I do not feel prepared to fill this obligation or role. At the wake, I couldn’t even correctly identify all of the family there.
Thankfully, I have unforeseen allies who are willing to step in and lend a hand when required. Relatives, who I have not spent significant time with during my adult life, provided me with the surnames of those who needed to be named in the obituary.
They also stepped forward to host the wake and make phone calls to these unknown relations of mine.
I will be forever grateful for their support when I needed it most.
Choosing a family for love not bloodline
With my parents no longer around me, I am able to stand as my own person, distinct from that family unit and all that came with it. With this new clarity, I can see those who stand with me.
Even though I am an unmarried, childless, and orphaned only child, I am not alone nor am I lonely. I am not isolated, and I am not unloved.
In fact, I am surrounded by a family. But this family I have selected for myself. They are Intelligent, caring, ambitious, confident, and engaged people who are always there for me. People who listen without judgement, who accept me as I am, and who make me laugh until my face hurts.
These people in my self-made family bring out the best parts of me. They encourage and support me and take a genuine interest in my life and well being. Most importantly, they are always there to help me get back up when I fall down.
Yes, these people are not my own flesh and blood, but they are the people I hold most dear. When they hurt, I hurt, too. When they celebrate, I celebrate with them.
And, when they are in need, I am there for them without hesitation. It has taken decades to find this family of mine.
My self-identity now chooses love over fear
In my past, there were many times when I felt alone. Abandoned. Deserted and betrayed. When I felt lonely. Or, when I felt adrift.
However, at this moment, I feel none of those things.
Instead, I feel a deep connection to my own history and where I come from. I know who I am and how I got here, and I honor each person in that chain who played a role in my creation.
Today, I am surrounded by people who support me and look out for me without even being asked. This family of my choosing forms a web of strength and authenticity around me and provides the stable foundation previously lacking in my life.
I appreciate these people more than they could ever know.
Gather loving people like sparkling jewels
Like gemstones scattered across the ocean floor, kindred spirits are constantly drifting across the paths of our lives.
If we catch a glimpse of one, we must make every effort not to lose sight of them.
We must gather these precious gems around us and hold them tight, as they are the most precious gift we will ever find.
Angela Misner is a fiercely independent professional who is passionate about social equality, personal accountability, and authenticity. As she approaches the twilight of her career, Angela is eager to devote more time to pursuing personal discovery, forging meaningful connections and expanding her world view. She remains committed to nurturing the important relationships in her life and is always seeking opportunities for growth and creativity.
A year ago, I would have walked in here like I owned the place. But a year ago, I weighed 15 pounds less and had tight abs and nice, sleek guns.
Then I had hernia surgery, a longer than expected recovery, and I fell out of the daily gym habit. And the longer I went not going, the harder it became to go through the door to the gym.
Every business trip, I packed my workout clothes, and they lay clean and unused when I returned home and unpacked. The last trip I didn’t even bother pretending. The workout clothes stayed at home.
But today is the day.
I am taking deep breaths as I walk out of the locker room and head to the gym. I hear treadmills spinning and weights banging.
It’s just the fucking commuity club, not Gold’s Gym, I tell myself.
I am probably the thinnest person here, but since I feel fat in my own skin, I don’t see myself as others do.
I open the door and scan the room. There’s a treadmill not being used by the big windows overlooking the back lawn and the bay. The water is angry, with white caps crashing, and the wind moving the water sideways. January at the Washington Coast.
BUT SOMETHING HAS TO CHANGE
I feel just like the ocean. Angry. Being blown sideways.
I don’t even know what I’m so angry or frustrated about.
Everyone just seems to move so slowly. Everyone seems to be taking pieces of me, until I have nothing left. I don’t seem to ever have enough time or enough of me.
By not sweating and really pushing myself in workouts, I haven’t had any release for my frustration or my anger. It just built up inside me.
Truth be told, it comes out in other ways, and usually my husband bears the brunt. As they say, we always hurt the ones we love the most.
But I can’t get angry at my colleagues or my children. So the most common target is my husband or, more often, myself. Beating myself up for not being good enough or thin enough or disciplined enough.
SO HERE I AM, STARTING OVER AGAIN
I start walking at 3.5 miles per hour, zero incline.
I have my workout music blaring into my ears. Eminem, Ludicrous, Linkin Park, Fort Minor – mixed in with Lauren Daigle, Casting Crowns, Mercy Me, and of course, Ben Platt, and my musical theatre songs.
I feel weighed down, like I’m barely moving.
But then, something breaks in me. A memory. Only it’s not in my mind, it’s my muscles, screaming: “YES! We remember this. We like this.”
Without thinking, I go to 4.0 mph. I raise the incline.
My heart starts pumping. I turn the music up louder.
At the one mile mark, I make my move. I am terrified that I will not even make it 30 seconds running, but I tell myself to just try. I push the up arrow to 6.0 mph and start running.
My inner voice starts coaching: “breathe in through your nose. Feel your breath in and out. Deep breaths. Keep your heart rate down.”
At 1.5 miles, I go back down to 4.0 and a power walk. But at 2 miles, I go back to 6 and run again. I do intervals until I hit 3.2 miles and cool down.
It feels good. To sweat. To feel my heart.
I feel like screaming, but I would probably scare the crap out of the old woman next to me.
I DID it!
My body kicked into gear.
10 days later: Beyond a New Year’s Resolution
I have now been to the gym 7 or the last 9 days. Each time, I ran a 5k. I am able to run longer and faster, and I’ve added push-ups and planks to my routine.
I am still not confident enough to use the weights or machines. But, I’ll get there. I will ask for help.
The scale is not as kind as I would like, as no movement there. However, I can feel the difference. I feel thinner, or at least less puffy.
Although today I put on my “huge” baggy work jeans, and they fit – even a little tight if I was to be honest. I was frustrated, but I told myself at least they still fit. Could be worse.
Now I need to stay with it. Not give up just as I am getting into the habit. Not just the exercise, but the no or little sugar, and more nights without a glass of wine.
I know this sounds like every other New Year’s resolution. And yes, the timing is the same as every other person on the planet promising to be a better version of themselves in 2020. But, for me, it was about finally having time to test the waters.
I just couldn’t find out if I still had it in me at 5:00 am in a hotel gym surrounded by colleagues or business execs who double as underwear models. No, I needed to do this surrounded by people who don’t threaten me.
Ironically, I don’t even notice my surroundings when I’m in the “mode.” I tend to stare straight ahead, moving to my music and my own thoughts. So it shouldn’t matter, but it does.
Remembering to make “me” a priority
Maybe you can relate to my story. Putting yourself last. Making excuses to not work out or eat healthy or sleep enough. I am trying to think about what we can all learn from my experience.
Here are a few ideas.
1. Be kind to yourself
2. It’s never too late to get started
3. Take baby steps
4. Celebrate small improvements
5. Find joy in what you’re doing
6. Ask for help
I hope you find fresh energy and light in this new year.
I walk into Latin class. As typical, I sit near the window in the back of the classroom. This location allows me to survey the whole classroom and, hopefully, avoid direct interactions with, well, anyone.
I take a good look at the instructor: a 50-something-year-old guy named George Parker. He is wearing suspenders, large framed glasses, and a bad dye job. I wonder what role he will play in my effort to remake myself as a human being. Or at least, normal.
At this new school, my goal is to construct a new me.
Why a new me?
First, junior high sucked. I had a few friends whom I disdained, and the cool kids I really wanted as friends wanted nothing to do with me. Some of the teachers were kind, but others tolerated me at best. I don’t blame them.
Second, girls didn’t like me and kept their distance. Again, I don’t blame them. I was the shortest kid in my class, with braces and wire-rimmed glasses that made me look like I was an alien. And to complete the visual, my head was shaped like E.T.’s.
Really. People said so. No joke. E.T.
Third and final strike, I played Dungeons and Dragons with my friends the same way the stoners who gathered in the high school parking lot smoked weed – as often as possible.
Accordingly, my self-worth score leaving junior high was around minus 10.
Trying to Achieve Escape Velocity
As I sit at my desk, I have some vague hope that this is my chance to reinvent myself. To turn myself into something other than who I am: a low-status loser who plays D&D to escape the misery of my day-to-day existence.
Somehow, I will master this difficult subject, and start on the road to becoming an intellectual. And then, I can escape to a decent college that is far, far away from here.
It’s not just that I want to increase my social order status amidst the rich, white suburb outside of Boston where I live and have grown up. I want out, completely.
I need to achieve escape velocity from my reality. To get out from under the verbal and physical abuse from my dad.
My dad, you see, is an unpredictable, mean drunk who turns the dinner table into a war zone even when he is sober.
He is now seven years sober, but still has some of the characteristics of what people in recovery call a “dry drunk.” He’s somewhat better. However, I am far from recovered. I can’t just stop drinking from the bottle of my memories. Sure, abusive episodes are less frequent, but the damage has been done.
Memories of an Alcoholic Father
Let me take you down memory lane.
Once, when I was younger, I remember laughing as my dad drunkenly danced in the dining room while we ate. His Vaudeville act was complete with a hat and cane. We laughed, but nervously, fearful that this comedic scene could turn abusive at any moment.
Another time, dad woke up dead-drunk a couple of hours after sundown. It was late Fall and dark outside. He came downstairs to find us hiding in the den eating TV dinners and watching a rerun of Gunsmoke. He growled like a troll, picked up the flimsy folding tables we were eating from, and tried to throw them out the window, splattering food and shards of broken glass everywhere.
But the pièce de résistance was a fear years ago, when a sober dad screamed at my older brother for not believing in the existence of God. He yelled as if the force of his voice and anger alone was going to reconstitute my brother’s faith in a sovereign creator. As Dad screamed, my mother, brother, and I sat quietly like hostages on a hijacked plane, afraid to move or speak.
Day Three: The Self-esteem Decline
After that first day, I was cautiously optimistic. Parker had taught us the eight parts of speech. There was nothing in the material that seemed too impenetrable.
It felt doable, allowing me to entertain the hope that maybe I could become a good student and even something of an intellectual.
However, it is now day three, and I can feel a shift in the energy.
Sure enough, Parker walks over to my desk.
“Dexter, what would you think if I said you had puelline features?” he asks. He didn’t wink, as if it was an inside joke, but instead just stared right at me.
I wince. Just moments before, we had learned puella was the word for “girl” in Latin.
“You’re saying I look like a girl,” I say, nonchalantly. I don’t want him to see that his words hurt me.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he responds, “I’d just say that you have feminine features.”
His gaze becomes intense, betraying his curiosity over how I would respond.
My heart starts racing, and my brain goes into damage control. I know this game, and I really don’t like playing it.
Living in Parallel Universes
This, it turns out, was just the beginning. Every day, I leave a home where I exist in a state of constant fear at worst – and malaise existence, at best.
Now, I go through the school day with the same feeling.
Every time I walk into Latin class, I am overcome with vomit-inducing fear.
What will he say or do to me today?
My Latin textbook has become a horror to me. A grimoire – a book of evil spells. I naively thought that if I really buckled down and became proficient at Latin, I would earn Mr. Parker’s respect. But it wasn’t to be.
This constant fear is taking its toll on my concentration and ability to learn. I am now far from escaping the velocity of this evil gravitational pull. I’m cratering.
“You don’t have to come to school for this. You get this at home, don’t you?” Parker says to me, revealing his awareness of the world I inhabit. He must have smelled it on me.
My brain races back to a dinner-table confrontation when I was nine years old. Dad had been sober for two years sober but was still nasty to me. Over the meal, I laid down the law and told him he’d better stop picking on me.
“Or what?” he asked, triumphantly, knowing that I had backed myself into a corner.
“Or I’ll beat your head in,” I threatened, at which point he slapped me hard with his open right hand on the side of my head. Moments later he wept in shame and guilt, telling me he was proud of me for standing up to him.
In psychology, they call this a double bind. In other words, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
Getting Help From An Unexpected Source
“You need to tell that guy where to get off!” a student tells me during lunch.
“It’s no big deal,” I reply, amazed anyone is even slightly taking my side.
That night, I tell my family what’s going on in Latin class. I have no choice, as I’m flunking Latin and need to explain. I tell my mom the facts, including that I can’t even open my Latin textbook without getting sick to my stomach.
My mom reacts with sympathy, but also disbelief that any teacher would talk to a student in the way I am describing. Still, she knows I am telling the truth.
Following my dinner table confession, my mom goes next door to talk to our neighbor who is a retired high school English teacher. She knows me pretty well , because I deliver the local newspaper to her house five days a week.
After my mother spoke to our neighbor about my plight, I talk to her myself one day while delivering her paper. She tells me that Parker went to seminary but was never ordained. Currently, he served as president of the teacher’s union, and despite enjoying a certain charisma and popularity, was regarded with disdain by many of his colleagues.
“He’s a weirdo,” she summed up.
Much of this information was not new. However, one thing she told me that was new is the fact that Parker has a reputation for picking on outcasts in his classroom. Apparently, this is an open secret in the school department. He had done it before and everyone knew about it. I wasn’t the first student in town he had singled out for abuse like this.
But, it turns out, I was the last.
Taking a stand for myself
That night, I told my dad about the situation over dinner.
When I shared Parker’s comment about “you get this at home,” my Dad’s eyes flashed with anger; a look I knew only too well. Only, for a change, it wasn’t towards me.
“The next time he says something like that to you, you tell him: ‘Why don’t you stop with the personal comments and teach me Latin,” my dad suggests, with anger in his voice.
“I can’t say that to a teacher,” I reply.
“You’ve learned how to stand up to me,” he says with a mixture of guilt and pride on his face. “Now you’re going to have to stand up to this prick.”
This was a hinge point in our relationship. From then on, I knew my dad was on my side.
Incredibly, the opportunity to follow my Dad’s advice came sooner than I expected.
“Dexter, what would you say if I told you to put your face into a bowl of flour and make monkey face pie?” Parker asks me the next day, as if this is a normal question for a teacher to ask.
Instinctively, I respond with the smooth stone my father gave me.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d cut out the personal comments and teach me Latin for a change,” I say, loudly and without expression.
“What is this, the new Dexter?” he says triumphantly.
A coruscating chorus of laughter breaks out among my fellow classmates.
“It’s not funny,” I yell back. Tears start running down my face.
I am done being bullied.
“You’ve been saying stuff like that at me all along. You made me out to be a faggot and a loser,” I retort, choking on my tears and snot.
An awkward silence fills the room.
Finding a shred of self-worth
“I’m sorry, Dexter,” he says. “I never intended to hurt your feelings. I was just having some fun, and thought you could take it.”
He went back to the front of the room to finish class.
Latin was supposed to be my savior. My reinvention. Yet, I am sitting at my desk with tears running down my face and snot soaking my shirt. My status as a loser, and my fate, forever sealed.
Or so I thought.
“Hey, I heard about what you did in Parker’s class. You did good,” another teacher says to me a few days later. He made a point of walking out to me in the hallway as I walked by his room.
Despite my breakdown, the episode, and my mother’s subsequent call to the principal resulted in some sort of awkward truce between me and Parker.
This increased my confidence, ever so slightly.
“You’re just mad that my name is in the textbook and yours isn’t,” I say to him one day after he gives me crap about my homework.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, looking confused.
“My name, Dexter, is right here in the book,” I explain, pointing to the dictionary in the back of the text. (Dexter means “right” in Latin.)
He laughs. “Not bad. Not bad,” he admits.
Day ~800: Peace be With You
During the last week of the school year, we hold an awards ceremony in the gymnasium. In spite of our truce, I am still flunking Latin.
“Dexter, what did you do with your Latin award?” Parker asks me when we arrive back in the classroom.
“I burned it,” I say, without missing a beat.
The class, and Parker, laugh. But this time, at my joke, not at me.
A few days later, I show up for the final exam, make a few cursory attempts to fill in the blanks, and then hand in my incomplete test.
“Pax Vobiscum (Peace be with You),” he says to me as I leave.
I think part of him actually thought he meant it.
Seeking Reinvention on the West Coast
Mr. Parker left teaching the following year and returned to seminary. This time, he was ordained as a Catholic priest. And no, the irony is not lost on me.
I saw him three years later when he gave the benediction at my graduation.
“Hello,” I said to him as I walked past with my diploma. He returned the gesture with an exaggerated air of blessing.
“You should have given him the finger,” my dad said, indifferent to Parker’s status as a man of the cloth.
“You already had your diploma,” he said. “What could the bastards do to you?”
A few months later, I got on an airplane and headed off to college in the Pacific Northwest.
A new state, a new school, a new scene.
I was going to reinvent myself. Or at least figure out who I am.
Dexter has nearly two decades of journalistic experience as a staffer and freelancer. His specialties include journalism, media analysis, and research specializing in Christian anti-Zionism. Dexter is also experienced in covering fisheries management and environmental policy. He lives in Boston with his wife and two daughters.
Interested in connecting with Dexter? Please follow him on twitter at @dextervanzile and on Linkedin.
My only thought as I walk to my locker is how much my mouth hurts. This new orthodontist added springs over my vampire teeth and gave them a good tightening.
The springs are working. I can feel my heartbeat in my mouth. Chewing cereal is torture. Eggs tomorrow, I think.
My head is down, and I’m counting the cracks in the cement. The beige metal lockers barely stand out against the standard California institution stucco walls.
I arrive at my locker and turn the lock to the first number, 33. I’m concentrating on my lock, so I hear them before I see them.
“Doggy Dawson. Doggy Dawson.” The chant begins.
“Hey spidey legs, how did you escape from your web?”
Laughter.
“How’s it going stilts? Nice floods.”
I close my eyes, hoping they’ll disappear in the blackness. As I open my eyes, I’m staring at my pant legs. Floods. They do not make pants for 13-year-old girls who are 5 foot 8 inches tall and 110 pounds soaking wet.
Don’t even get me started on the Ditto Jeans all the cute, short, round-butted girls are wearing. I bought a light-blue pair last month, using all of my babysitting money.
Now I’ll fit in, I told myself, ignoring the fact they didn’t really fit when I tried them on.
But they were still too short even after letting out the hem. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I sewed more material to the bottom of the pant legs. However, like every other time I think I’m doing the right thing, this one also failed miserably. Not only did the popular horseshoe design hang off my skinny butt, but the 3-inch band of material sewn along the hem looked ridiculous, giving my tormentors more ammunition.
Tall and Skinny
I’ve always been tall for my age. But I grew 6 inches over the last year, going from 5’2” to 5’8” in a matter of months. Not only do I have “chicken legs” – another favorite taunt – but my legs don’t work right much of the time.
The doctor says my bones are growing faster than my muscles. The result is: I fall down. One minute I’m walking along fine, and the next, my groin muscle gives out, and I collapse to the ground. I never know when it’s going to happen.
Often, afterwards, I can’t walk for a few hours or, sometimes, for a few days. Last summer at horse camp, my bunk mates carried me around for two days until I could put pressure on my groin again. It’s particularly annoying when it happens during a softball game. Try running bases with a separated groin muscle. My coach put in a pinch runner for me during our last game. But at least I hit the ball hard enough to get on base.
It’s even worse when my knee pops out of its socket. That one hurts more than my groin issue. Only thing to do is snap my leg straight out as fast as I can to pop it back into place. A process during which I scream like bloody hell and drop swear words a 13-year-old shouldn’t even know. I learned all parts of this technique from my dad.
With Braces and Zits
I wasn’t bad looking up through 6th grade. But full on puberty has taken over every part of my body since moving to our posh new suburb of Long Beach, California. (Yeah, this is a good year for my dad’s job. We even have a swimming pool.)
I hoped the 8th grade was going to be a good year.
On top of puberty and my growth spurt came braces. And if things were bad enough, along came acne. Not just those little pimples some kids get on their foreheads. These zits are red, angry, and out for revenge. And sometimes I get these deeply painful pimples, my sister Maureen and I call them “bo bos” – as in BoBo the Clown. Because they feel like that big red nose he wears.
Bo bos never head up – they remain deep volcanic tumors that hurt when you move. Even full-strength Benzoyl Peroxide cream doesn’t heal them, and there is no makeup that will cover them. When I get a bo bo, I don’t want to leave the house.
I just want to cover my face in zit cream and stay under the covers.
My mother says it’s just an “awkward stage” everyone goes through, and reminds me how beautiful I am on the inside.
Oh, yeah, that always makes me feel MUCH better.
Awkward Stage is an Understatement
Clearly, my mom has never seen Lita Lipana. She is a goddess. Her mother is caucasion and her dad is Filipino, and somehow this mixture of DNA created children who look molded out of Adonis. Every one of the children, and there are like 6 of them, are beautiful creatures.
Lita has long silken, almost black hair. Big eyes, with the most amazing eyelashes. Golden tan skin that glows. What 13-year-old’s skin glows? And her figure is perfect. Ditto jeans look amazing on her. The boys drool when she walks by.
For the record, Lita is always nice to me, which somehow makes her even more goddess like. If she was horrible to pathetic creatures like me, I could hate her. But I like her. She’s fucking perfect.
I have friends by the way. We’re not the popular kids, in case you hadn’t figured that out. But we hang out. We do homework together. We talk about boys we are in love with.
Most days, we lay around Jessica’s purple bedroom and listen to music on the radio. I love to sing along, especially when Captain and Tenille’s Shop Around comes on: “My mama told me you better shop around!” We argue whether Paul McCartney and Wings are good or not. I’m a Beatles purist, but Jessica loves “Silly Love Songs.” I admit it has a nice melody and is easy to sing along to.
And of course, we eat junk food, even though the dermatologist says it will make my acne worse. Not sure that’s possible. But the dermo isn’t taking away my Snickers bars. Although the caramel and peanuts get stuck in my braces. At least I don’t eat the fake orange Doritos my girlfriends pounce on.
Feeling Like an Outsider
The taunting laughter fades as the group of 8th-grade boys moves on.
I open my locker. For a second, I wonder if I could just stuff my head inside and suffocate. Would they feel bad if the tall, skinny girl with braces and zits passed out and died on the walkway right near the student store?
“Hey, Dawson. How’s it going?” The voice of an angel saves me from my self-destructive thoughts.
It’s Paul M – the best looking boy in the 8th grade, who I think every girl is in love with. Paul has long, wavy blond hair and big blue eyes – like a California surfer. And he’s as tall as I am, which makes him the only boy in all of Newcomb Middle School I don’t look down on. We are in student government together, and for some reason, he is always nice to me. I’m sure he’d laugh if he knew I “liked” liked him.
Dear Evan Hansen Mixes Teenage Angst with Hope
I was thrust into memories of my 13-year-old life this week after seeing the Broadway production of Dear Evan Hansen. The teenage angst and feeling of being alone, misunderstood, and an outsider slammed into me through the lyrics and scenes.
An angry teenage boy kills himself. We don’t ever learn why he committed suicide. But isolation, maybe mental illness, and clearly a feeling of being alone in the world all contributed.
I cried nearly the entire first half of the show. Not just because of the sad story or powerful lyrics, but because I could feel the pain. I was there. Not on stage, but in real life. I know that empty feeling in your gut when you feel like you just can’t go on, and wonder if anyone would care or notice if you did disappear.
Sure, my family would be sad. But would it really make a difference in the world? One more pathetic teenage girl gone from the planet?
I remember wondering how I would do it. I’ve always had a fundamental dislike of guns, so that was out. I thought drowning would be the least painful and lengthy, but I was a good swimmer as a kid, so figured my survival mechanism would kick in. Razor blades sounded painful and messy. Pills were always my final decision.
The problem is I am a rule follower. So killing myself broke all the rules, religious and societal. I also don’t think I ever really wanted to die. I just wanted to be beautiful. Or at least not so ugly and different. And maybe just a little bit popular.
We all just want to be “normal”
In the least, I wanted to stop being that girl standing along the wall at school dances, knowing no boy will ask her to dance. Or the girl the good-looking frat boys only start talking to at a party when they’re drunk and it’s after midnight, and they are running out of options to get laid.
I know I was not unique. Most teenagers feel suicidal, or at least depressed, at some point. Unfortunately, many don’t just think about it but go through with it.
If anything, it’s worse than when I was a kid. Teen suicide rates are at a 20-year high, with a 10 percent increase over three years for those teens ages 15 to 19. Some experts blame the rise of bullying on social media, and the constant barrage of messages kids receive.
At least when I went home after school, I mostly escaped feeling like a loser.
Our Mean Inner Teenage Voice
I stopped hearing the “Doggy Dawson” chant from my inner voice sometime in my twenties. It took much longer before I felt beautiful in my own skin. And even well into my thirties, I only really believed I was beautiful if a handsome man told me I was. I craved and was addicted to external validation of my looks.
Because of pubescent teasing, I thought my long legs were ugly. I didn’t realize until I was well into my twenties that having long, thin legs was something to show off and capitalize on. I only learned much later that other women were even jealous of my legs. How ironic. This is one reason I still wear short skirts. I am making up for lost time!
My friend Connie shared with me recently that the mean moniker kids gave her was “Abe,” because supposedly her profile resembled Abe Lincoln. I do not see this at all. This is a stunning, beautiful woman. And yet, she still looks in the mirror and has to fight off seeing “Abe.”
Battling Teenage Loneliness & Bullying
It’s incredible how long we hold on to the image of ourselves when we were younger. We allow our own internal perception to hold onto the cruel, external feedback we received as a kid. Only, I think we are meaner to ourselves than even those bullies were back then.
Why? And how do we shift our voices to tell ourselves we are beautiful and absolutely good enough?
It’s funny because I know people who know me will read this and say, “What? Margaret is so confident and self-assured.” Sure. I am. But there were many, many years of faking it until I felt it. And if I am to be honest, that teenage girl with zits, braces, glasses, and long skinny legs still haunts my head sometimes.
In my discussion about encouraging more girls to pursue STEM, I recommend teaching ourselves and our children to be nice to that “different girl.” For many of us who are today women in technology, we WERE that different girl. A girl that didn’t quite fit in. Who didn’t belong. The girl who was afraid to be too smart, because the smart kids are called geeks and nerds and thrown into lockers. Or worse.
Often, kids will bully or taunt those different, geeky, or shy kids, because they are afraid of becoming bullied themselves. Often, they feel different and alone. That doesn’t make a difference when you are the target of a bully, because the effects are devastating. However, it helps to perhaps have more compassion towards both sides.
We can all make a difference
As my mind is still hearing echoes of that powerful musical, I want to use my voice and this space to call us all to action.
What can we do together to help each other feel not alone, or like we are all working together towards a common goal on this crazy planet called Earth?
How can we raise our children to not ignore or tease other children, but to reach out to them?
I think it’s possible. I have been accused of being an optimist. I am. I am also proud of what that scared, awkward girl with chicken legs, braces, zits and glasses is today. Tall, beautiful, healthy, smart – a leader, mother, friend, colleague, wife, partner, and more. I still have days where I feel like that girl at the locker, but I recover faster, and learn to laugh at my own geekiness.
I am also optimistic about this community. I believe we all can make a difference with simple acts of support and encouragement.
You Will Be Found Lyrics
I leave you with the lyrics of “You Will Be Found” from Dear Evan Hansen. Be forewarned, this version on YouTube by a global virtual choir always makes me cry. But it also gives me hope to see people across all ages, ethnicities, and geographies singing together.
Have you ever felt like nobody was there?
Have you ever felt forgotten in the middle of nowhere?
There is something so powerful when someone is illuminating a room with their presence, and not hiding their gifts to the world. When they are truly letting their true light shine.
I think Marianne Williamson says it best when she implies that we are hiding our light because of fear that we might be too much or not accepted for ourselves. I think this is true for so many of us.
“Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.” Marianne Williamson
Ironically, this quote is usually attributed to Nelson Mandela. It wasn’t until I started researching my first Snorting Out Loud presentation that I found out Marianne Williamson actually authored this. While I absolutely love and respect Nelson Mandela, I did think it interesting that this was attributed to a man, as opposed to a female writer and philosopher.
Attribution aside, this spoke to me. I had this taped to the wall to remind me not to be afraid to shine. Not to hide my true self. Not to be what I thought others expected me to be.
You were born ready to shine your light
Think back to when you were three or four years old – or whatever your earliest memory is.
What did you love?
What were you like?
Chances are your memories are wonderfully simple. You loved swinging. You loved playing house with your best friend. For me, I have some very clear memories or really more feelings.
I remember clearly I wanted to be an actress. In fact, at some young age, I was absolutely positive I was going to be a famous Broadway singer and actress. I loved musical theatre more than anything. I started trying out for shows at the age of four. At a slightly older age, I would ride my bike to the community theatre and try out for musicals, along with much older kids and adults.
It was just so clear.
I also have wonderful memories of sitting in the driveway of our house in Palo Alto, California, watching the neighbor boy, Stanley, shoot baskets. I thought he was the most divine creature, and my mother tells me I would say, “He is just like a wonderful chocolate bar, and I want to eat him up.” Who says that? A child who has no filter and loves life as it is. And who hasn’t been told you aren’t supposed to think someone different from you is absolutely beautiful.
I was also in love with another four year old in the neighborhood, David, who I would play house with. And I loved my best friend, Leah, who lived across the street, and whose father was in theatre. And I loved running around the neighborhood to all the different families, especially around meal time, and especially the Mexican-American family whose mother made the most amazing food in the world.
Your light is the purest form of joy
My belief in becoming a great actress was so clear in fact that, for a period of time, I told people my name was “Candy”. I thought that was a great actress name, and it was the name of the character in the hit TV show at the time, Here Comes the Brides, who was in love with the character played by Bobby Sherman. Who I also loved. I was too young to realize it was really much more of a stripper name. 🙂
This was a period when I also developed a habit of singing little songs to myself. These songs could be about anything: going to the store, swinging on the swing set, eating dinner. Anything. And they always had the same basic melody. It never occurred to me to not just sing out loud whenever the desire hit me.
I share these memories because to me this was the last time I remember a time when I completely and fully was letting my true light shine. And when you are shining your light, you are pure in your joy for the world and those around you.
How to shine your light
What is this light?
Your true light is your:
Unique gifts to the world
Inner beauty and power
Connection to the universe
Potential to be all you can be
It’s what makes you, YOU.
So think back to a time when you know in your heart you were letting your light shine on the world and being your true self.
Try to hold that glimmer of light in your hand. And then try starting to do one thing that used to bring you that pure joy.
We will be talking a lot about more about this over the months to come!
Think back to when you were three or four years old – or whatever your earliest memory is.
What is this light?