We each have our own ideas and perspectives on what is true. This is based on what we learn, see, and experience through our lives. Truth is an idea that is deceptively simple and overwhelmingly complicated all at the same time.
This morning, Goddess encouraged me to explore my truth. And I must admit, I am struggling with this directive.
Who am I, truthfully?
What do I honestly want for my life?
Am I brave enough to live my truth unapologetically?
To answer these questions, I’ll explore my personal values. I feel the best way to articulate who I am is to thoroughly outline my fundamental truths, the basic beliefs that shape how I move through the world.
So welcome to the This is Me series! In this collection of posts, I’ll examine my core values using Brené Brown’s Dare to Lead list.
First, I’ll share the 8 core values I’ve chosen. Then we’ll dig into each one in detail. Each post will focus on a single value and why it is so important to me. My goal is to deepen my understanding of myself and stand firmly and proudly in who I am.
I’m so excited to begin this journey toward self-acceptance, and I encourage you to come along for the ride! May we all embrace our truth, accept who we are, and move forward more confidently in life.
Are you patriotic? What does being patriotic mean to you?
As a child, I thought America was the best country on the planet. Today, I still have love for my country. But as I’ve grown and learned more American history—real American history, not the whitewashed sugarcoated stuff—the relationship has grown more complicated.
America was built on land stolen from indigenous people with labor stolen from enslaved Africans. As a descendant of enslaved Africans, I am constantly reminded of the cost of the “American experiment.” Chattel slavery built this country, and my ancestors lives were only as valuable as the work they completed, the output they produced. That original sin is often glossed over; even today politicians claim America is “not a racist country” when it was literally built on the backs of the extremely racial institution of slavery.
I grew up during the 1990s, a decade of innovation and prosperity in America. During my childhood, it seemed like things were on the up and up for the USA. But even then, there were subtle signs that my country of origin wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Unfortunately I experienced racism as young as 4 years old. I was called racial slurs, told to “go back to Africa,” the list goes on and on.
Where I grew up, racism was blatant—confederate flags, segregated churches, an active Klan chapter just a few counties over. But racism would sneak up on you too. I’ll never forget when one of my closest friends—someone I literally called my brother—told me to go pick his cotton. I assumed I misheard him when he said it the first time; surely my “brother” wouldn’t say something like that to me! He repeated himself for emphasis, and I’ve never forgotten how crushed I felt in that moment.
In 1996, the US hosted the summer Olympics in Atlanta. My mother and I were fortunate enough to get tickets—we saw Michael Johnson and his gold shoes set world records in Track & Field! But those Games were marred by tragedy; a bombing took place that sent the country into a panic. Fast forward to September 11, 2001, another tragic day in American history. After both of those incidents, Americans came together in ways that I had never seen before. It felt like we were actually united—not Black or white, gay or straight, but American. When times got tough, we really lived up to the statement “united we stand, divided we fall.”
And still, I haven’t even begun to touch on the ways America has caused conflict and chaos in other parts of the world. It is hard to be proud when I know how much damage my country has caused to people who look just like me.
To me, being patriotic is resolving to do what I can right these wrongs. I can’t change everything, but I can take small steps. I can try to make things right and be the kind of American I can be proud of. Patriotism is recognizing our painful past and vowing to never let it happen again. True patriotism is creating an American that lives up the the ideals set forth hundreds of years ago: one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
I’m the type of gal to try to make the most of any situation. I say I “go with the flow” though my therapist might call it “conflict avoidant” haha. But I truly don’t have much to complain about in life.
However, one thing chaps my ass so much I’ll actually speak up about it:
If you say you’re going to do something, DO IT.
Nothing irritates me more than a flaky person. The old folks called it “sometimey.” You say one thing, then do another. Behaving this way is a guaranteed method to get my attention (and not in a positive way).
Perhaps I feel this way because I try really hard to keep my commitments. My mother DID NOT PLAY about keeping commitments! Anytime I wanted to sign up for a new activity or team, she would always say, “If you agree to this, you see it through the whole season/year/production/whatever. You don’t have to do it ever again after that, but people are depending on you. If you make this commitment, you keep it.”
So you can imagine how, after a lifetime of keeping commitments, it irks me when others don’t do the same. To me, my word is everything. So if you tell me you’ll do something, I will believe you until you show me otherwise. Therefore…
If you can no longer do a thing, SAY SOMETHING.
I know life happens. Sometimes things don’t go as planned. So if I can’t keep a commitment, I’ll let you know as far in advance as I can (and expect you to do the same). Don’t have people out here counting on you and then just leave them hanging—that is disrespectful and rude.
So be honest. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Keep the promises you do make. Let folks know if situations change.
Then maybe we’ll all have a bit less to complain about!
Since I was a child, I’ve always had a lot of “stuff.” School papers, books, knickknacks, stuffed animals—if I received it, I kept it. To this day, my mother expresses amazement at the system of organized chaos I maintained. Yes, my room was a mess, but that mess was cataloged (and if you messed with my mess I would definitely notice).
As an adult, I’m still inclined to keep things but to a significantly smaller extent. These days I hang onto sentimental stuff: cards, photos, ticket stubs, items that are typically smaller and easier to store. I actually competed a project last month to reorganized all my mementos; they are now separated by phase of life, tucked away in labeled bins for easy reference in the future. (How very Virgo of me, spending my hard earned vacation time on home organization projects haha.)
Nowadays, the mental clutter requires more attention than the physical. I struggle so hard with letting memories go…especially when they hurt. The rejections, the embarrassments, the dismissals, the failures, the missed opportunities—all of them live rent-free in my brain and they love making their presence known.
I understand our brains do lots of wild stuff because of evolution; they are hard wired to protect us from danger and memory is part of that. But what I don’t understand is why I can’t purge some of this mental clutter. Why I hold onto it, pull it off the shelf, and examine it so often (even when I’d rather be thinking about pretty much anything else.)
It reminds me of a song:
I’m real good at forgiving
But my heart can’t forget
The ache before the mend
Kelly Clarkson, skip this part
I’m pretty good at moving on, but for some reason my brain just refuses to let go of all the hurt.
Maybe this is all for some higher purpose I haven’t realized yet. Or maybe it’s my depression and anxiety playing tricks on me (as they are known to do). Either way, I’d love to clear out some of these old hurts and make room for more positive thoughts.
Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. What kid doesn’t love the twinkling lights, the tree covered in bits and baubles, and (of course) the presents that awaited on Christmas morning? As an adult, I still look forward to this time of year.
It’s the spirit.
My mom made tons of holiday treats—yogurt dipped pretzels, peanut butter fudge, and her famous chocolate no-bake cookies—and I, her assistant elf, helped deliver the goodies to family like Santa in his sleigh. We sat a spell, cracking jokes and telling stories, then headed to our next delivery for more of the same. We carried a spirit of giving, fellowship, and gratitude.
This time of year, we have fun. We give. We look forward to the promise a new year can bring. We intend; we manifest; we resolve.
I wish we kept the spirit all year long. Especially now, as so much tragedy unfolds in the world.
May we all move forward with positive intent and gracious hearts. May we demonstrate with our actions the age old adage “’tis better to give than to receive.” May we love our neighbors as we love ourselves, and love ourselves fiercely.
Unfortunately, this is something I think about a lot. When my depression hits and my anxiety starts acting up, my thoughts spiral around what other people say (or think) about me. My conscious mind tells me I shouldn’t worry about how others perceive me, but I am human and while I shouldn’t worry, I do wonder.
While I hope people say I’m smart, or funny, or the most gorgeous human on the planet, those things aren’t what I really want. What I really hope people say has more to do with them than it actually does with me.
I hope people say I made them feel good about themselves.
I hope they say they felt more confident after speaking with me.
I hope they say they felt seen, heard, valued.
I hope they smile when they think of me.
Because I know what it feels like when the voice in your head belittles you and makes you feel absolutely worthless.
So I want to be the person who reminds people who they truly are.
If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?
I’ve always been an “early to bed, early to rise” kind of gal. My childhood best friend and I were reminiscing the other day and she laughed while recalling how even at noisy slumber parties I would take myself to bed whenever I got tired enough. What can I say? I need my beauty rest, and lots of it.
But what if sleep wasn’t a necessity? What would I do if I had the full 24 hours in my day?
Short answer: EVERYTHING.
I would go to clubs and parties in the wee hours of the night, just to see what all the fuss is about. (I’ve long been skeptical that those places are actually fun after midnight.)
I would clean my house within an inch of its life and finally, finally be caught up on laundry.
I would stay up late talking with my husband, growing closer together as we watched the sun rise.
I would finish all the books I’ve been trying to read and get my library hold list down to 0.
I would have more sessions with my therapist.
I would exercise more. (The pandemic taught me that I will work out if I have literally nothing else to do.)
I would volunteer in my community.
I would spend more time with my family and friends. (Traveling wouldn’t be as big of a hassle if I could do it while the rest of the world is sleeping.)
I would blog more and finally start that memoir I’ve been itching to write.
And, if I’m really being honest with myself, I would probably long for the “beauty rest” I no longer needed.
I would reminisce about the 8-10 hours I used to sleep every day.
I would recall how good it felt to retire at the end of a long day, to quietly slip into that still pool of slumber.
I would achingly remember what it felt like to dream.
deepcurvesahead 