There’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.
Relationships.
Not just dating. Not just marriage. Not just heartbreak.
The relationship we have with ourselves.
And if I’m being completely transparent, I’m not sure I always had one.
I got married at 18. Eighteen.
At 18, I thought I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. Which is actually hilarious because at 43, I sometimes stand in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator like the answer to my entire existence might be hiding behind the mik.
But I spent a huge part of my adult life as someone’s wife.
Then I became someone’s mom.
Then I became someone’s ex-wife.
And somewhere in all of those titles, I’m not sure how much time I ever spent figuring out what I was.
My marriage wasn’t easy. There were years of hurt, sadness, and things I accepted that I would never accept today. And when you spend enough time in a relationship like that, something happens slowly.
You start questioning yourself.
Maybe I’m too sensitive.
Maybe I’m asking for too much.
Maybe if I looked different.
Maybe if I acted differently.
Maybe if I were easier to love.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
And before you know it you’re trying to become a version of yourself that someone else might love better.
But this isn’t just something that happens in bad marriages.
I see it everywhere.
People shrinking themselves to keep relationships. Staying quiet because they don’t want to cause an argument. Accepting breadcrumbs because at least they’re getting something. Looking at themselves in the mirror and wondering what they need to fix so someone will finally choose them.
And then we have social media pouring gasoline on the whole thing.
Scroll for five minutes and everyone is beautiful, in love, successful, traveling somewhere fabulous, standing in a spotless kitchen and apparently living a life where nobody has ever cried in a bathroom.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are wondering why our lives don’t look like that.
But Instagram doesn’t show the argument that happened before the picture.
Facebook doesn’t show the couple who barely speaks once the phones are put down.
The smiling family photo doesn’t show the financial stress, the lonliness, the resentment or the person wondering if they’re enough.
We see everyone’s highlights reel and compare it to the parts of our own lives that nobody sees.
And appearance is probably one of the worst parts of it.
Women are supposed to be thin – but not too thin. Fit, but feminine. Young, but somehow effortlessly young because God forbid anyone knows you tried. Have great skin, great hair, great clothes, white teeth, perfect eyebros and apparently no pores.
Men aren’t exactly getting a free pass either. They’re supposed to be tall, successful, confident, fit, financially secure and emotionally available – but never insecure.
Who made these rules?
And why are we letting them decide whether we’re worthy of being loved?
There is nothing wrong with wanting to look good. I want to look good. I want to feel confident when I walk into a room. I want clothes I feel great in and hair that cooperates for once in its life.
But there’s a difference between changing something because you want to and changing yourself because you’re hoping it will finally make you enough for somebody else.
That’s the part I’m learning.
I don’t want to spend the second half of my life auditioning for love.
I don’t want to convince someone that I’m worth choosing.
I don’t want to make myself smaller, quieter, prettier, easier or less complicated just so someone will stay.
And I don’t think anyone else should have to either.
Maybe loving yourself isn’t standing in front of the mirror every morning shouting affirmations about how amazing you are.
Maybe sometimes it’s much less glamorous.
Maybe it’s walking away when someone continually hurts you.
Maybe it’s saying no without writing a five-paragraph explanation afterward.
Maybe it’s eating the damn ice cream.
Maybe it’s wearing the outfit even though your body doesn’t look exactly like the woman wearing it on Instagram.
Maybe it’s spending a Friday night alone and realizing that alone and lonely aren’t necessarily the same thing.
Maybe it’s finally understanding that rejection doesn’t automatically mean there is something wrong with you.
And maybe it’s realizing that someone else’s inability to love you the way you need to be loved doesn’t determine how lovable you are.
I’m 43, and I’m still figuring some of this out.
There are still days I look in the mirror and pick myself apart.
There are still moments I question whether I’m enough.
There are still relationships – romantic and otherwise – that make me wonder why I wasn’t important enough for someone to show up differently.
I’m human.
But I’m starting to understand something I wish. my 18-year-old self had known.
You shouldn’t have to earn love by becoming someone else.
The right people shouldn’t require you to abandon yourself in order to keep them.
So maybe before we worry so much about finding someone who loves us, we need to spend a little more time getting to know the person we’ve been carrying around this entire time.
Not the filtered version.
Not the version our ex wanted.
Not the version society says we’re supposed to be.
Not the version that gets the most likes.
Just us.
Imperfect. Complicated. Still figuring shit out.
And already enough.
Leave a comment