I’ve died a thousand deaths to find myself. Or at the very least, the self I am today. And I fall in love with myself each and every time. Is that conceited, arrogant, proud? Maybe. But definitely proud. And content. How do you not fall in love with this feeling, this settling in your own skin? This knowing that you are right where you’re supposed to be? This nodding in affirmation to all your hard work to be the person you want to be?

Past iterations of me include the self consumed by shame and inadequacy, the self who tried to be confident but walked alongside Imposter Syndrome in lockstep, the self who hustled to be perfect and complete all the “shoulds” in life. There were 997 more iterations of me, and many of them overlapped. 

Seasons come and go, each spring familiar and similar to all the other springs, yet unique in that year. Seasons of my life have come and gone, and the world thinks I’m familiar, similar. It’s still me. And it’s not. Each spring, there is digging up weeds, cleaning up garden beds, pruning bushes. And in each of my life seasons, there is digging up, cleaning up, pruning. Adding a new something, rearranging things, fertilizing things. Nurturing, growing, deepening roots.

I have been intentional in my personal gardening, in decisions within recent iterations of self. A new friend said it best, “A decision was made.” Yes, I’ve been mindful to make decisions.  Some have ended badly (head injury from the trapeze), some have brought glorious joy (drumming on stage), some have been cringe-worthy (magnetic eyelashes).

All the while, each decision led me closer to my current iteration, one who truly no longer cares what others think, one who listens to their inner voice, one who makes decisions to do things, or not do things, simply because of desire. There is a surety of self in these moments, a surety and satisfaction and release of fears. How do you not love this state of being?

An opportunity arose recently. A local writer was bringing a juried national storytelling event to my area. There was a call for an essay contest and the chosen few would read these personal essays in front of an audience. Comprised of real humans. Real humans with opinions and judgment. Previous iterations of me would have yearned to do this, and terrified of all the possibilities. What if my essay wasn’t chosen? What if the audience didn’t like my words? What if I was paralyzed in fear of failure and judgment? I may not have even submitted an essay. I may have just complained to friends that I really wanted to do this, and possibly created excuses to not.

I will tell you what I did do. I met the moment. I closed the announcement for the call for essays. And I started typing. I submitted it within an hour. I knew I was made for this moment. I’ve died a thousand deaths to get to who I am today. Don’t tell me you don’t like aging. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of growing older. Don’t tell me you feel like your best days are behind you. Tell me who you are, and who you want to be. I can’t wait to meet them soon.