A Deceptively Sweet First Entry or, What If You Just Loved Her?

Snapshot. Elementary school. They test me for the gifted and talented program. Apparently, I am neither gifted nor talented and I remain in “regular” classes. Shame.

Snapshot. Sixth grade. I am sitting in English class and the words for the week are projected onto a screen in the front of the room. “Hey, Lauren,” a boy shouts, “read that word.” He points and I answer, “N-A-V-E.” He giggles, the other little assholes giggle. The word was naïve. The irony is not lost on me. Shame.

Snapshot. Eight grade. I am HOT AF. But I’m wearing a sweatshirt to conceal by changing body and what I feel are the imperfections of my midsection. I sit with my legs perched on my tippy toes so that my thighs don’t expand to hang over the edge of the tiny chair attached to the desk. Holly’s don’t. Shame.

Snapshot. Highschool. All of my friends are in the play. I am the stage manager. Shame.

 Snapshot. College. My boyfriend, it turns out, is a cheater. He informs me that the girl with whom he is cheating calls me “The Weather Girl,” because apparently I look a lot like a chubby newscaster. I guess that injury needed a little insult. Shame.

 Snapshot. Graduate school. I am living on my own in New York City. I have never felt so lonely in my entire life while living in one of the most populated cities in the world. I am not having the time of my life. Shame.

 Snapshot. 2009. I am pregnant with a baby girl and separating from my husband. I am 24. I have no job, I have just finished graduate school. I am moving back to Virginia feeling like my tail is tucked between my legs. Shame.

 Snapshot. 2019. I feel like I am drowning. Is it still called baby weight if the baby will be three this year? So many of my dreams have been made real, why am I struggling to find contentment? You can’t, I’m learning, have it all and be it all. At least not at the same time. At least not well. Shame.

 Brené Brown defines shame as, “The intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”

“Owning our story,” she says, “can be hard, but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky, but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love, belonging, and joy- the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”

I love movies as an instrument of story and one of my favorite parts of any movie is the montage where the character relents and realizes they’re going to have to undertake some odyssey of change to achieve that which they desire. Set to a catchy tune, we watch our hero or heroine lose the weight, do the work, get the job, close the sale, move into the new place or whatever or, let’s be honest, take off their glasses and get their hair done if we are selling that they get cooler and more beautiful somehow and in a matter of minutes, it’s over. They have done whatever it is that they set out to do and their life is now finally beginning.

Before. After.

But that’s not how it works, is it? There’s never one magical solution that makes our world infinitely and permanently better, there is no official point at which we begin, it turns out, except the day that we are born. And certainly there are no three minute transformations. No real montages. No way to fast forward through the sticky bits. 

A couple of weeks ago I went to a performance that Gremlin 1 (my oldest daughter) was in. 450 4th graders came together and danced their hearts out as a part of a storytelling through dance and music program at their schools. They were wonderful. And terrible. And they were proud. I was so inspired. 

The most natural movers to the hottest lost messes, they were proud. Whether they got all of the steps, or none of the steps. They were proud. How? How can that be?

Hands waved excitedly from the audience, parents hoping that their kids saw that they were there, and that they were proud. Little eyes peered out into the darkness, hoping to orient themselves with the knowing that their safest people were there to cheer them on. They were met with bouquets of flowers and grandparents gushing and two standing ovations. They were lifted into warm, supportive arms and told how absolutely fantastic they were. 

I don’t know when the last time was that I danced without having to have less than a drink or two on board. I don’t know when the last time was that I gushed with pride for myself over a job well done or bought myself some flowers. I don’t know when the last time was that I clapped for myself just for trying hard.

Kids are able to do the most amazing things, even when they do them terribly, and I realize that’s largely because they have not yet been shamed out of being wholly and recklessly themselves. I’m sad to say that Gremlin 1, just 9 years old, is already starting to lose some of that mojo. 

 But who are we even as adults but our childhood selves who need to feel loved and accepted? Who are we really but people longing to know that we are enough, that we are worthy? Who are we really but people that need to dance and feel proud?

 I am a masterpiece and a mess. I am nailing it and royally fucking it up on a regular basis. I am doing my absolute best. I am a little girl asking to be loved and accepted. 

 And what if I just loved her? Who could she be? What could she do? I’m hoping to find out.

 I am inviting you to come with me as I wade through the muck. Do the work. Survive the minutes. And I am hoping that this small act of resistance in our shame-based culture, supports you in doing the same.

 Join me?