The Stories we Tell Ourselves

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In an attempt to justify, and perhaps excuse, the next 24 hours of non-productivity, I have decided to write a post. Almost in a stream-of-consciousness way. But instead of examining why I feel the need to earn relaxation, today I'm not entirely sure what I want to talk about.

I could talk about pride, and how it holds us back. Pride makes us unwilling to ask for help, or admit mistakes. But, I don't want to. 

I could talk about how we are the enemies of our own progress. 

At some point in the last couple of days, I realised I am not the child I was. As a child, I was fearless. Not because I didn't understand failure, or hurt or pain. But because I decided life was worth living in spite of them. Yet, at some point, I lost this understanding of life and became a coward. At some point, I let someone tell me that life isn't worth the pain. Or perhaps that pain isn't worth life. And the result is present-day me: a woman who will never have it all because she is too terrified to try. Too scared to jump, lest the earth shifts beneath her and she falls. I don't know when this happened. But it was a gradual process. I remember feeling this fear when applying to universities; when I dissuaded myself from reaching for the best because I didn't want to deal with the fear of failure. It escalated in university. After receiving rejection after rejection from employers, I simply concluded I wasn't worthy and set my sights lower; when I should have set my sights even higher and demanded more of myself. When I moved back home, it escalated again. Moving back felt like I had failed and wasted my parents' money. So I set my sights lower still. Determined to make them proud. Desperate to make a return on their investment. 

Yet, through it all, I had little moments of insight. Spaces in time where I could remember who I was and what I was capable of. But these moments did not shine as brightly as the failures that looped through my mind. And so I constructed a narrative about myself. One that told me, that I am only so capable; only so competent; and only so worthy. A narrative that limited me and my capabilities. And one that baulked and vehemently denied anyone or anything that told me differently.

It took me 20 years to realise that the story I told myself about myself, was not real. And it will take me even longer to learn how to tell a new story. As I learn, I will have to open myself up to pain and rejection. I will have to accept that the world will move when I jump and that that isn't a bad thing. Most importantly, I will have to learn how to be kinder to myself. And this one is the one I'll struggle most with. 

How do you be kind to yourself, when all you've ever shown yourself is toxicity and abuse? 

Maybe that will be my challenge for 2023.



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