people-pleasing – Meg Hartley

7 Things I Learned from 5+ Years of Solitude

Published on April 1, 2023April 8, 2023 by megglesworthLeave a comment

Isolation can be transformative and empowering, here’s how.

Originally published Mar 23, 2021, on Medium

It’s been one year since the pandemic started, a year that’s brought significant changes for just about everyone.

Some of us have been overly trapped in a house with too many people; but others of us have been all on our own for quarantine, left alone with our minds, and a pet, if we’re lucky.

Going from a life of being out in the world, talking with people, experiencing novelty and freedom — to being all alone in your apartment, like, every day, can be immensely difficult.

In October of 2015, I had my last day working at a health company that had been extremely compassionate in regard to my sick time. I had been crashing right after work most days for years, and the days where I couldn’t leave the house at all had started to outnumber the days that I could.

Since then, it’s been a life of treasuring the days where I do feel good enough to leave the house.

I’d learn that I had a B12 level of 132 pg/mL; the doctor noting that I’d have been paralyzed within a month, and dead within a year. A year and a half later, having been tested for just about every other ailment — I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, explaining the pain all over my body, but leaving me with many unanswered questions.

And, finally, just this summer I was diagnosed with Level Two autism, a mind-blowing diagnosis, for sure, but one that has brought me the answers to those questions, tools, and a literally like-minded community (if only online, for now).

So, when the pandemic started, I was already on year four of near-complete solitude — I have been completely by myself for the vast majority of my hours, for five freakin’ years.

At first, it was really hard. Not gonna lie.

But this solitude has brought me treasures, as well. Transformational ones.

May we all be infinitely more awesome versions of ourselves by the time the world reopens, ready to rock its socks right off.

Our world constantly feeds us information to process and react to, and while letting all that go might be difficult; its absence can be immensely centering, especially with some intention and effort.

Though the arrival of vaccines is exciting, the reality is that many of us (especially my fellow high-risk peeps) are probably going to be solo’ing it up for some time — so I thought that I’d share the gifts that isolation has brought me, and how to get at ‘em.

7 Things I’ve Learned from Extended Solitude

The most important relationship is the one we have with ourselves. For a lot of us, it’s easy to be thrown into everyone else’s world, letting other people occupy our mental spaces rather than focusing on cultivating our own internal peace. It’s important to engage in activities that help us feel closer to ourselves; for me, it’s spirituality and making art (ta-da) — maybe for you, it’s gourmet cooking whilst listening to personal development podcasts. But whatever it is, making it happen regularly is absolutely worth the effort.
Self-care, like meditation and daily movement, is not optional. Similarly, it’s important to hold ourselves accountable for taking care of our minds and bodies, which can be tricky when your whole routine is thrown out of wack. Luckily, to get rolling all you need is a bit of floor space, maybe some direction and inspiration from YouTube, and willpower derived from knowing that self-care leads to happier and more productive days — making you your best you.
It’s okay to follow your own rhythm. Our society pushes a fast-paced lifestyle that starts at 6:30 am, and even if you’ve been laid off, or your hours have become more flexible; it’s likely you’re still feeling pressure to keep it up. Take this opportunity to learn about your own internal rhythms — see what time you wake up natural, be busy on a Sunday and chilled out on Monday, discover what truly works for you.
Authenticity is key to sanity. I first started falling ill regularly over a decade ago, and the forced solitude helped me realize that I wasn’t being my full self when around others, that I feared doing so, and it made me anxious, almost constantly, which I hid, constantly. After a few months alone, unobserved, unguarded, unedited; I found myself being sillier, as well as feeling more joy and peace, and I’m better able to bring that into my relationships when I do have the energy to connect.
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Notice how you are alone, and how you are with others — is there a gap? As the great Brené Brown says, “If you trade your authenticity for safety, you may experience the following: anxiety, depression, eating disorders, addiction, rage, blame, resentment, and inexplicable grief,” which is something I can personally vouch for. Mind the gap, my friend, then close it good.
Societal conditioning is utter nonsense. All this time alone, without being persistently exposed to and influenced by the views of others, being able to control the amount of conditioning I’m exposed to — has helped me to really see our society for what it is. (And, very often, it’s not great.)
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Inspect your psyche and motivations, how much is “mother culture” affecting your goals, assumptions, and beliefs? How does advertising affect you? Social media? Keep your eyes peeled for internal reactions (especially shame) when encountering aspects of socialization and our society, observe how conditioning can be an insidious mofo.
The key to never being bored is caring more. My mother always used to say, “If you’re bored, you’re boring,” which irritated me as a restless teen, but I’ve come to see its wisdom. Engaging people are always engaging with something, learning about their new passion, supporting the people around them (if only from afar), and generally cultivating their curiosity at every turn — and the key to it all is caring.
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While happy hours and concerts allude, opportunities for caring are still abundant, and one is never bored whilst giving a shit about something. (It just can’t be done.) Whether it’s getting involved with your community somehow, taking up a new hobby, or exploring your obsession with some random topic you love with all your heart; bid adieu to boredom and get it get it.
It’s crucial to know what company uplifts, and who drains you. When availability for interaction is limited, it’s especially important to be particular. Once I started examining how I felt after talking with people (in-person or otherwise), I realized that I very often wound up in a negative space afterward; realizing that they hadn’t asked me a single question, that an errant comment was making me insecure, or that I was feeling otherwise diminished, less seen.
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My experience was certainly colored by my unconsciously deflecting to mask my autism (and other coping methods), but this isn’t an uncommon issue. Some of us are keener to hold space, and others are keener to take it — it’s important to find balance in both our behavior and in the company we keep. The forced space of quarantine can help ween out potentially toxic relations, leaving more time for connection that uplifts.

While I hope that this isolation is broken sooner than later, I try to remember the overwhelmingly external times in my life, the days I had too many places to go, too many people to talk to — and remember that those times will come again, and they’ll likely send me into a light nostalgia over my present situation.

Let’s make the best of being here, now, shall we?

May we all be infinitely more awesome versions of ourselves by the time the world reopens, ready to rock its socks right off.

We got this.

Underneath It All: Peeling Back Societal Bullsh*t to Reveal a More Whole You

Published on December 20, 2022May 4, 2023 by megglesworth3 Comments

A month to shake off the societal madness, find the mental peace beneath it, and try on new ways of living.

My bookbaby, Underneath It All: Peeling Back Societal Bullsh*t to Reveal a More Whole You, is a 3-part book dedicated to helping people in modern society shake off harmful conditioning that narrows the way we see one another, ourselves, and the point of this whole living thing. It aims to open up potentiality for authentic expression, living more consciously, and having more fun whilst doing so.

Part I defines and details Societal Bullshit, also helping you to identify what it means to you personally and how you’re affected by it, using tales from my very-lived life to illustrate examples of the negative effects it can have on people, as well as plentiful research to expand and back up my points.
Part II will teach you to calm your mind so you can watch it for thoughts of toxic society ick—I promise it’s in there, we’re literally trained for it—by challenging you to a 30-day meditation challenge, slowly increasing your time as you go, and offering various styles so you can find something that works for your needs and preferences.
Part III will help expand your boundaries by challenging you to complete 20 out of 30 (quick) Adventures: you’ll be doing random acts of kindness, fessing up your truth, making stuff, and generally connecting to life in real and refreshing ways; accompanied by four inspiring stories of lives lived with bold authenticity. Parts II and III include space to write thoughts, draw impressions, or paste pics/mementos.

Together, it’s an average of 20 minutes a day or so, longer if you get creative with it. The world is a strange and disorienting place, but the one-month growth project that is Underneath It All will help you to better orient yourself within it by teaching you to examine how societal bullshit’s crept into your mind and providing guidance and (often fun) strategies to get centered in your actual you, your whole you.

By the end of the month, you’ll feel like your perspective on life has gone through a refreshing cleanse, and so has your mind—which is really your home, if you think about it. (And the lease is for the rest of your life…)

I just got started seeking representation, so stay tuned, friends. ❤

Resilience and Compassion

Published on November 17, 2021December 28, 2022 by megglesworthLeave a comment

I love this quote. After going through a difficult time, any semi-reflective person is likely to do some thinking on their weaknesses and faults; because how else does one avoid making the same mistakes?

But it’s easy to overdo ‘er. It’s common to not only own one’s errs, but to define ourselves by them, if only unconsciously. When you decide that you’ll never be good enough, things improving seems impossible. And the mental place of “why bother?” is no breeding ground for resilience.

Compassion for ourselves helps us get to a place of seeing ourselves as stronger and wiser for our mistakes, which makes trying again seem worth the effort and potential risks.

And compassion for others is how we become able to look at the world, and the people in it, as potentially trustworthy. This enables us to put ourselves “out there” again, one of many daunting-but-essential parts of getting to a place of resilience.

Becoming resilient is generally a prize that must be hard won, but the goods are mighty good indeed.

“Resting Niceface” Made My Invisible Illness Go Undiagnosed For 25 Years

Published on July 11, 2018December 29, 2022 by megglesworthLeave a comment

I smile a lot. Not because it’s my favorite, though I certainly don’t mind, but because my face just does that.

By MEG HARTLEY
Ravishly, 07.11.18

Yesterday, I went to a doctor’s office that I hadn’t been to in months.

“How’s it going?” I asked the woman checking me in.

“I remember you!” She replied. “You were this nice last time as well. It’s so good to see you again!” She seemed genuinely relieved by something I had done, but all that happened was a normal greeting.

Strangers frequently overshare with me and then say, “I don’t know why I told you that!” I regularly get stopped in stores because people think I work there. I am trusted with the belongings of random people. All of my roommates wind up calling their pets “traitors” after I move in. Children tend to adore me, even when I’m annoyed at their presence. Everyone thinks I have a crush on them.

Like Buddy in Elf, Hank Hooper in 30 Rock, and all blonde women in Bechdel-failing movies, I have Resting Niceface, the opposite of the more well-known Resting Bitchface. It’s generally an awesome thing to have. People smile back, for one thing — that whole sugar/vinegar thing is true! Men rarely demand I smile because it’s already sitting there on my face. People are usually comfortable with me. I get lots of hugs.

But my Resting Niceface also causes confusion. Acquaintances are often taken aback when I don’t smile. People also sometimes don’t listen to my words. More than once I’ve expressed concern about something and had people actually respond like I’d said something positive. A couple of guys have been bewildered when I broke up with them — even after I repeatedly told them I was pissed and felt like I wasn’t being taken seriously.

So I ignored cysts large enough to debilitate, unusual reactions to pretty standard intoxicants, and bouts of pretty severe depression. After I’d recovered from whatever had me down, the problems felt like pretty small things. I mean, I got better, right? And everyone else thought I was fine, so I figured that they must have been through something similar and that these things were normal.

This phenomenon has also played a significant role in why I was just recently, at the age of 33, diagnosed with an “invisible illness” that I likely started showing symptoms of when I was eight. I vaguely remember asking a pediatrician what was wrong then after a test for ulcers came up negative. He looked at me as if he could assess my diagnosis from a glance at my face and said, “Oh, probably nothing. You’ll be fine.”

At least as a kid and teenager, my parents took me to a doctor when symptoms popped up, garnering misdiagnoses of asthma, hypoglycemia, and a trauma-induced mental break. But out on my own, I turned to friends with my symptoms. They assessed me much like that doctor, looking at my face and saying, “I’m sure you’re fine.”

So I ignored cysts large enough to debilitate, unusual reactions to pretty standard intoxicants, and bouts of severe depression. After I’d recovered from whatever had me down, the problems felt like pretty small things. I mean, I got better, right? And everyone else thought I was okay, so I figured that they must have been through something similar and that these things were normal.

My symptoms morphed over the years, transforming into what looked like a frequent flu in my late 20s. I’d show up at work after taking time off, feeling miserable but apparently looking just fine. Several bosses accused me of faking it, and I lost two jobs due to their suspicions. (Others called me a trooper and told me they appreciated my positivity. It’s a matter of perspective, I guess.) Doctors told me it wasn’t the flu, but most of them too were “sure I was fine.”

I’d reason away the symptoms, chalking them up to my lifestyle choices or telling myself I was just being a baby. I convinced myself it was just a super-duper frequent flu. I told myself that dizziness was very common and forgetting your close friends’ names was normal — just a brain fart! I figured that physical activity was simply not my forte, that some people don’t like moving — ignoring that I was once a competitive athlete. I figured that I was just clumsy and that’s why I was constantly dropping things and tripping — ignoring that my sport had been gymnastics. I decided that I was just allergic to everything, and that’s why I had random rashes and swelling. I blamed sporadic but extreme irritability on both birth control and obnoxious people.

For a long time, it was easy to believe I was fine.

So I groggily adjusted to the new normals, to new mysterious pains, to new frequent low fevers, to new levels of confusion. It wasn’t until about a year and a half before I became homebound ill that “agreeing I was probably fine” turned into straight-up denial.

The flu-like symptoms, extreme tenderness, debilitating fatigue, and tear-inducing “aches” started crashing in on me most nights, accompanied by a tingly pain. I turned into a dreadfully flaky person, canceling on people at the last minute due to my health. Then I stopped making plans altogether. And not long after that, I had to stop working too.

Throughout, my Niceface kept confusing doctors and assuring folks when it needed to be conveying urgency to them.

Eventually, after nearly 30 years, I finally got a diagnosis. Methylenetetrahydrofolate reductase mutation, or MTHFR for short, is a relatively common genetic mutation that is often innocuous — but some types of mutations are more health-adverse. It can lead to heart troubles, infertility, autoimmune disorders, and other kinds of disease. For me, the manifestation was a severe B12 deficiency — nearly low enough to kill or paralyze me.

A year and a half of tests after the B12 revelation, I was also diagnosed with fibromyalgia, another disease of the nervous system. With the help of a complete diet change, gradually increasing exercise, a move to a hotter drier climate, and many other efforts, I’ve made a stunning recovery. I went from being on near-complete bedrest to now working a part-time job and freelancing on my days off.

I’m still a long way from where I’d like to be. Very tiny amounts of activity still exhaust me. I have absolutely no social life; I work, I rest, and that’s about it. I still have talking troubles from time to time, suddenly getting slurry and confused. But I’ve come so far, especially since getting diagnosed. And maybe it’s just the optimistic personality that so often comes hand-in-hand with Resting Niceface, but I bet I’ll make a total and complete recovery.

How I Realized There Is No Shame in Being Ill

Published on August 17, 2017December 29, 2022 by megglesworthLeave a comment

Meg Hartley

August 17, 2017

I knew something was seriously wrong the day I could no longer hold up a book on my bus commute. I had routinely been getting sick for years prior, first a few times a year, then doubling over the next few. By the time I started enduring bookless bus rides I was falling ill with what I thought was the flu near monthly.

I became weak and movement started to hurt my muscles. My brain felt like it was filled with cotton. My body became tender to the touch, hurting wherever it held weight. I was so confused when my booty started hurting all the time (from sitting)… I laughed that one off, but at night – when my memory foam felt like concrete and the usual electric pain skyrocketed – it wasn’t something I could stretch into amusing. By the time I started to get answers, I was so sick I was lucky to spend more than a handful of hours vertical a week, an array of other symptoms constantly plaguing me.

I kept it a secret as much as I could for as long as I could. I suppose I thought it was my fault, somehow. At first, I thought that I just had a lowered immune system due to my then great love of beer… even though it didn’t really make sense. Shame makes people do and think stupid shit, it really does.

I had been heading right to bed after work (when I could make it) nearly everyday for about two years before I became homebound. By then I had broken my daily after work beer habit, despite its pain-smashing effects, but continued to fall ill, and with greater frequency. Still, I kept it to myself, faking it as best as I could. It was so gradual. It was also totally invisible back then and I’m naturally a smiler, I pulled off “healthy” most of the time, I think. Faking it also distracted me from the cacophony of symptoms, making it easier to cope.

My friends probably thought I became aloof and flaky. I had taken to never saying anyone’s name so I wouldn’t mix it up or plain forget. I stopped making plans after blaming introversion for bailing at the last minute too many times. I’d reach out on the rare good day and sometimes get lucky, or make a plan at my house (no commute) with alcohol involved, so I could function despite the pain, but I was mostly alone long before I was trapped inside my apartment with no way out.

I started temping around the time I lost my treasured social life. At first it was because I just needed work in my new city of Portland, Oregon; but then I realized that I couldn’t get fired for missing too much work if I switched jobs frequently, as one does in temping. The temping probably didn’t help the shame, being at the bottom of the totem pole for the first time in my adult life. (And at age 30 to salt the wound.)

My first job out of college was a good one, boosted by a big promotion just six months after. And then the recession hit. The office I was a manager at shut down over several weeks, groups leaving the office in tears every few days or so, with us managers leaving last. In addition to trouble from missing too much work, I’d lose two more jobs due to mass layoffs or closures in the next five years – something that created stress, which I’d later learn contributed to the severity of my condition.

The day I realized that I really needed to use my walker on a regular basis, I screamed at a medical ride transport driver to, “Fucking stop the car right now!!” It was an act that startled us both. He had refused to stop at the grocery store by my house, something that had been planned with the company he worked for. I’d even double-checked because I had a bad feeling about it. I had absolutely no budget for a cab and no way to get to the store from my apartment at the bottom of a half-mile hill.

I got out of the car at the top and slammed the door behind me, quickly realizing that my knees were buckling again. By the end of the two minute walk to the store, I was crying from the pain and walking like I was 15 months pregnant with triplets, grabbing onto anything I could to hold me up. But I still didn’t use my walker routinely. Shame.

The day I actually started using it also featured a medical ride driver fight. He had shown up an hour late and then lied to me about it. My symptoms had shot through the roof in that hour waiting outside the doctor’s office, and my legs weren’t holding my weight at all. He at least got me to my pharmacy/grocery stop, and even offered to help – but I was too mad to accept his offer.

So, brilliantly, I tried to fling myself from the car to a nearby grocery cart, or makeshift walker. I pushed against the door with all my might but caught my thumb in the handle, unexpectedly on the side of the door, smashing it real good and immediately changing the skin and nail to purple-black. I fell to the ground, unable to get up on my own. It was a bad day.

I had a book in my hand and new information about a shared genetic mutation in my head the day I realized that I was suffering from the same thing that led to my mother’s death. I couldn’t get the 19-year-old memories of her screaming, “My nerves are shot!” out of my head. How she complained that she couldn’t think straight, even buying tapes to help her failing memory. How she always needed to lay down, saying she was just resting her eyes, but getting tearful when she couldn’t sleep over our noise. How she internalized it all, always feeling guilty for having such a hard time. I believe shame killed her.

I first realized that we shared mental illnesses when I was 19, after a year of intense depression concluded with a mental break. I optimistically attributed the latter to having done shrooms right before, but the fierce storm in my head scared me with its darkness and frequency. The mental break – or spiritual awakening if you asked my philosophy professor – was like a dream, a really good one. But, from the outside, I just went around my small hometown acting like I was a bit odd for five days.

Though I was deeply embarrassed about the event, the storms of depression didn’t come back until about eight years later, a year of job-hunting after that first layoff. The episodes increased over time, keeping pace with my ailing body. Of course, this was also something that I kept to myself, so much shame. I used meditation and mindfulness to keep the depression at bay, but it knows how to sneak-attack me – usually triggered by outside events, though sometimes tiny and not always.

The day I really did something about it was the same day I did something about the shame. It was spring of 2017 when I called 911 for fear of my life. I had gotten seriously horrible news and couldn’t stop thinking about the ways I could leave this life. My apartment suddenly seemed all scissors and pills and high balcony drops. After a terrifying night alone in the ER I was moved to the mental ward, and for the first time, I didn’t keep the depressive episode to myself.

I finally took advice from my writing (we seem to always teach the things we need to learn, eh?) and stopped caring about how others might judge me. This was too important. Too common. Too hidden. Mental health illnesses had already taken my mother, I couldn’t let it fester inside me anymore. I also hoped sharing my story might help someone else feel empowered to get help. I spilled my guts on social media that day, finally sharing about the mental struggle that had tortured me for so long. People were kind and supportive, several reaching out to me with empathy derived from their own challenges. Shame is silly.

The first day I finally shared my physical torture was the day I received my first accurate diagnosis: B12 deficiency, likely starting from birth. (A. Fucking. Vitamin.) I received the second just last month, after all other possibilities had been ruled out: fibromyalgia. A disease without a cure, whose cause isn’t known. However, there’s lots of anecdotal evidence for lifestyle cures; I’ve been eating a clean diet for a couple years, but I’m going to do even further diet changes. Luckily I haven’t been eating my feelings as much since shaking off the shame monkey – a fabulous diet trick that should make this cleanse easier than the last.

I’m frustrated by the potential healing possibilities that I just can’t do right now, like exercising my way through the pain as many people say they’ve done. That’s likely to send me into a flu-like flare that can last for weeks, where all I can do I lay down. They’re positively maddening. I’d give it a shot anyway, but how would I get anything done? My finances are already beyond a wreck and I need to get to the doctor, to get groceries… how do people do it?

I’m not without hope though. In fact, I’m convinced that I’m going to get better. I imagine myself running into the ocean at full speed and diving in, or doing gymnastics again, or hiking up an ancient pyramid; it feels so real. Positive thought isn’t nothing! As for the B12 deficiency damage, I’m taking low-dose Naltrexone, which is said to instigate healing – so let’s hope, send juju. I also now have emergency pills for the depression and have finally found a great therapist. I’m going to be OK.

However, I wonder what would have happened if I was assertive about needing help six years ago. (I’d still be able to walk reliably, that’s for sure.) I hope today is the day that you do something about a symptom of yours, be it physical or mental. Please don’t reason these things away or sweep them under the proverbial rug. It’s so easy to overlook the importance of health when it’s mostly good, but these things can take over your world before you know it. There’s no shame in illness, and there’s no shame in getting help.

How am I not myself?

Published on June 13, 2016December 29, 2022 by megglesworthLeave a comment

When I first encountered the phrase “be yourself” I remember wondering, “What does that even mean? Isn’t that my only option, who else would I be?” The movie i heart huckabees illustrates the quandary via Jude Law losing all of the things he defines himself by: his job, his home, his relationship. He’s left pondering, “How am I not myself?”

In a time where authenticity is a buzzword, do we even know what we mean?

It seems to me that we are the most “ourselves” when we honor our honest desires and needs by expressing and acting to satisfy them. But what are your honest desires and needs? Sometimes it’s not as easy as it sounds to pin down.

A list might pop into your mind like, I want a book deal, I need to get some sun, I want that hot guy, etc. It’s what’s behind them that holds the keys: why do you want what you want?

Do I want a book deal to appease someone else, or do I genuinely feel that I have a message that can help? Do I really want that hot guy or do I want to be seen with him? Do I want to get some sun for my health or to look tan for someone else?

Examine your motivations (without judgement!) and you might get some clarifying surprises. It often turns out that all too much time spent without regard to what you actually want and need. It’s normal in our society to fill one’s time with obligations, letting them replace our passions under the guise of adulting. Be yourself by getting clear what you truly want and why. Make a list.

A great way to not be yourself is to let your reactions rule you. How do you behave when you’re scared or anxious about something? Are you dick-ish without apology or explanation? That’s hiding, you know. So not you. (As is not trying so you can’t fail.)

In high school I had specific music for when friends were in the car, lots of top-of-charts songs I didn’t want to anyone to know annoyed me deeply. That wasn’t great self-ing. It’s pretty common to censor oneself like this, attempting to hide or delete the parts we feel might be rejected. It’s not great you-ing though, and isn’t it exhausting? Try dropping it.

“But then I’ll be rejected,” you might say. Yeah, that’s possible. But if you crack that nerdy joke or share that personal revelation – you might be rewarded with connection and empathy. Also known as “being truly understood.” And that’s the good shit.

How Losing Someone’s Approval Can Set You Free

Published on May 14, 2014December 28, 2022 by megglesworthLeave a comment

Lifehack, 2014
By Meg Hartley

I recently read about an athlete who made it all the way to the Olympics despite loathing their chosen sport. They committed their entire life to seeking one tiny, yet colossal, sentence—I’m proud of you. At some point, we all have someone we want to please, whose approval means the world to us.

I have an incredibly clear memory of the person I wanted approval from telling me I was intelligent, the kind of memory that stays crystal clear because you’ve recalled it so many times. I had parroted someone’s opinion about buying a Canadian soda. “We should really support our own economy,” ten-year-old me said. I had no idea what that meant, but I was looked at with approval, and my heart glowed. It felt so darn good.

I loved that feeling. The approval of my hero. It was nothing like the Olympic athlete, but I made some very big decisions based what might make them proud. I was hugely affected by wanting their approval.

Four months ago this person removed me from their life. It hurt. A lot.

However, in life there is rarely hurt without growth. I recently reflected on myself and my behavior since then and noticed something—I feel free.

After a period of denial and upset, I accepted that this is just how it is. I cannot have their approval. They don’t “get” me. They never have, and they probably never will. It’s not my fault, and it’s not their fault either—it simply is what it is.

This realization made me see how often I was modifying myself according to the thought, “what would they think?” It was shockingly frequent. This person had become an archetype for all kinds of people, and I’d been censoring myself constantly to avoid judgement. I suddenly felt like I’d been a half-assed version of myself my whole life!

I’d been using the desire for approval as an unconscious excuse for hiding. My excuse was gone as soon as I realized it existed (as often happens with our shadow aspects). I had no one to point at for holding me back from being truly wholehearted.

It was time to authentically step into myself and stop hiding who I am from others. Even if that person seems likely to be met with judgement. Even if what I really want to do with my life is incredibly intimidating and involves being extremely vulnerable.

Sometimes I miss the ol’ days when I had surrounded myself with judgement-protecting walls. When I could think to myself, “you can’t judge me, psssch, you don’t even know me.” It was safe there with no one seeing “the real me”—safe, and maddeningly, suffocatingly constricting.

Are you hiding? I hid in approval-seeking. Do you hide behind a veil of aloofness? A carefully crafted image? Perhaps well-timed jokes keep people from seeing you? Maybe you hide behind judgment. We all have our ways, and it can be really scary to let them go.

The thing is though, as long as we prevent ourselves from being truly seen, we will never be truly understood. Connection with others won’t be wholly authentic, and we will edit ourselves because we fear potential thoughts in other people’s heads. It’s really pretty silly.

It’s okay to not be accepted. In fact, you will never be accepted. If you finally gain the approval that was so dearly wanted, it will be lost from someone else. (Yourself, likely.) You will also miss out on connecting with people who really do see you, and who think you kick ass.

A messy falling out isn’t necessary to be freed from wanting someone’s approval. You don’t even have to tell them that you no longer care what they think of you. Just go ahead and do what makes you happy, be unapologetically yourself, and go for the things you really want in life. Do your thing, and let them do theirs.