I ASKED FOR HELP AND FOUND MY TRIBE.

This is not an easy thing for me to say, but here goes: My name is Suzy, and I need…ugh…I need…gulp…okay here goes…I NEED HELP!

Wow, that was tough, and yet it’s true. I am recovering from back-to-back reconstructive foot surgeries, and guess what I learned? I can’t do it alone. I need help. But sometimes it feels easier to do it the hard way than ask for help. Me, relinquish control of every aspect of my routine? Me, admit that I can’t do it all? Me, watch someone else do it the wrong way?

When you live over a decade with an illness, you learn to adapt. You learn to modify your ways in order to preserve your independence…and your self-esteem. Every time you have to ask for help, like opening a bottle of pain reliever medication so that you can function a little better and not have to ask for so much assistance, it’s a reminder that you have limitations while others don’t.

I don’t think the hesitance to ask for help is solely tied to those with illness or injury, though. I think far too many of us fall victim to this mentality. In this day and age of the multi-tasking, overachieving, constantly-striving-for-self-growth way of life, to admit we can’t do it all feels like defeat. Think about your workplace. A leader is only as good as the people she leads. A great leader has great employees and knows how to delegate. She has help.

Except in real life, most of us don’t have personal assistants to help us manage our lives. We can’t tell someone to watch our kids while we go to the doctor or bring us soup when we are sick. We have to ask. We have to interrupt someone else’s busy routine, one that’s probably just as full as ours.

                  No wonder we are so exhausted.

                  No wonder we feel busy and overwhelmed.

                  No wonder our relationships struggle and we feel alone.

                  No wonder we don’t feel a sense of community. We don’t offer a sense of community.

What are we so afraid of? Rejection? Move on and ask another person. Disappointment? Again, move on and find someone else. Being an inconvenience? Put yourself in the other person’s shoes. Would you feel inconvenienced? Hopefully your answer is no. Are you afraid of strengthening friendships? Having someone by your side to make life a little easier? Sharing in life’s troubles?

You see, we have so much to gain when we learn to ask for help and very little to lose (except for some maybe their pride, in which case I would suggest you need to be humbled now and then).

I’m not suggesting we make every problem someone else’s problem. There is strength and satisfaction to be found in perseverance. But when life seems to be throwing a dozen lemons at us (or in my case, a broken garbage disposal, broken dryer, backed up sewage pipes, broken garage door spring and a totally busted “Franken-foot”), and we only have two hands, why not ask for help catching the other lemons rather than trying to grow ten more hands (and maybe even an extra foot)?

So back to my foot surgeries: I not only accepted but I asked for help. I accepted offers for meals. I asked to borrow a knee scooter. I asked for healing prayers and emotional guidance. I asked for help getting kids to and from school. I asked for rides to doctor appointments and play dates. I asked for help when my daughter got herself stuck inside box spring mattress. Imagine making that phone call. I even asked one of my closest friends to scrub my toilet. (For the record, she is a neat freak whose love language I am pretty sure is cleaning toilets.)

And guess what? Not everyone helped, but a lot of them did, even with the toilets. They caught my lemons! It’s my hope that I can repay them with kindness and generosity. No, I take that back. I won’t repay them. These friends of mine, they don’t keep tabs. But maybe, hopefully, I can be there for them, and others, when the need for help arises.

I ASKED FOR HELP AND FOUND MY TRIBE.

This is not an easy thing for me to say, but here goes: My name is Suzy, and I need…ugh…I need…gulp…okay here goes…I NEED HELP!

Wow, that was tough, and yet it’s true. I am recovering from back-to-back reconstructive foot surgeries, and guess what I learned? I can’t do it alone. I need help. But sometimes it feels easier to do it the hard way than ask for help. Me, relinquish control of every aspect of my routine? Me, admit that I can’t do it all? Me, watch someone else do it the wrong way?

When you live over a decade with an illness, you learn to adapt. You learn to modify your ways in order to preserve your independence…and your self-esteem. Every time you have to ask for help, like opening a bottle of pain reliever medication so that you can function a little better and not have to ask for so much assistance, it’s a reminder that you have limitations while others don’t.

I don’t think the hesitance to ask for help is solely tied to those with illness or injury, though. I think far too many of us fall victim to this mentality. In this day and age of the multi-tasking, overachieving, constantly-striving-for-self-growth way of life, to admit we can’t do it all feels like defeat. Think about your workplace. A leader is only as good as the people she leads. A great leader has great employees and knows how to delegate. She has help.

Except in real life, most of us don’t have personal assistants to help us manage our lives. We can’t tell someone to watch our kids while we go to the doctor or bring us soup when we are sick. We have to ask. We have to interrupt someone else’s busy routine, one that’s probably just as full as ours.

                  No wonder we are so exhausted.

                  No wonder we feel busy and overwhelmed.

                  No wonder our relationships struggle and we feel alone.

                  No wonder we don’t feel a sense of community. We don’t offer a sense of community.

What are we so afraid of? Rejection? Move on and ask another person. Disappointment? Again, move on and find someone else. Being an inconvenience? Put yourself in the other person’s shoes. Would you feel inconvenienced? Hopefully your answer is no. Are you afraid of strengthening friendships? Having someone by your side to make life a little easier? Sharing in life’s troubles?

You see, we have so much to gain when we learn to ask for help and very little to lose (except for some maybe their pride, in which case I would suggest you need to be humbled now and then).

I’m not suggesting we make every problem someone else’s problem. There is strength and satisfaction to be found in perseverance. But when life seems to be throwing a dozen lemons at us (or in my case, a broken garbage disposal, broken dryer, backed up sewage pipes, broken garage door spring and a totally busted “Franken-foot”), and we only have two hands, why not ask for help catching the other lemons rather than trying to grow ten more hands (and maybe even an extra foot)?

So back to my foot surgeries: I not only accepted but I asked for help. I accepted offers for meals. I asked to borrow a knee scooter. I asked for healing prayers and emotional guidance. I asked for help getting kids to and from school. I asked for rides to doctor appointments and play dates. I asked for help when my daughter got herself stuck inside box spring mattress. Imagine making that phone call. I even asked one of my closest friends to scrub my toilet. (For the record, she is a neat freak whose love language I am pretty sure is cleaning toilets.)

And guess what? Not everyone helped, but a lot of them did, even with the toilets. They caught my lemons! It’s my hope that I can repay them with kindness and generosity. No, I take that back. I won’t repay them. These friends of mine, they don’t keep tabs. But maybe, hopefully, I can be there for them, and others, when the need for help arises.

PARENTING WITH RESPECT TO GROW YOUR RELATIONSHIPS.

In astrology, it's said that an eclipse is looked upon as a turning point. Where I live, we had almost one hundred percent totality. Our most amazing friends drove 11 hours to witness this phenomenon and stayed with us for a few days. They have four children, whom Mom homeschools, ranging in age from four to eleven. These kids are something to behold, full of smiles, confidence, and endless pleases and thank yous. They are constantly drawing, reading, playing games, or generally being delightful. And that's just the kids. I haven't even gotten started on their parents.

Mama is ethereal, she has a gentle way about her and a humble, witty, refreshingly honest sense of humor. She effortlessly floats from child to child, sitting down to draw with one or play cards with another. They arrived with a slew of library books, and she very naturally expanded upon the lessons within, craftily turning it into a teaching moment. None of it felt hurried or like a chore. She was one hundred percent engaged, and this wasn't even homeschool, it was vacation. 

Dad handles the kids with an uncommon level of patience. He is gentle in his reprimands, which surface more like empathetic chats. When the kids talk to him, he's all ears, there's no half listening or hurrying the conversation along. He injects subtle humor, which remanifests in the kids and how they communicate with others.

All across the board, major parenting inspiration. Goals, people.

Now, I'm going to have to get really transparent about how witnessing all of that made me feel as a parent. In two words, inadequate and ashamed. While I could have internalized these sensations, I chose to instead use them as a tool to explore my own parenting.

What I realized is that I'm spending a whole lot of time wiping down countertops and making things clean, at the expense of my children. I really had to sit back and ask myself, "Am I wiping countertops for four hours per day (exaggerated for dramatic effect) because I'm a neat freak, or am I endlessly cleaning because it's an excuse to not engage?" Then, I have to follow that up with, "Do I not want to engage, or do I not know how to?" This leads me further in, "Am I afraid to engage?" "Is my need for perfection or, more accurately, my fear of a lack thereof, keeping me from checking in?" I also noticed an underlying fear of changing and what that might entail.

For me, it all comes back to that vulnerability. It's diffusive. If my image doesn't project like I've got it all together, then what will people think of me? More importantly, what will I think of me? Will I feel weak, not good enough, not worthy? 

We both know that no one really cares about my house being tidy or meticulously decorated. Sure, they notice, but it's probably not a major factor in whether or not I'm considered likeable. The only person who is judging me is ME.

And, watching this family interact, I was judging myself, hard. But, this judgment felt like it had merit. It reminded me that my current parenting priorities aren't very authentic. They're coming from a place of feeling like I'm not enough. A place where I have to control my environment to feel adequate. And, some of it isn't about vulnerability at all, but is born out of a simple need for an example of how to be a more present parent.

Witnessing their profound relationships with one another checked me out of that irrationality and offered me a model, both things I sorely needed. I realized that in an attempt to maintain "perfect" order, I'm impatient. I half listen to the words coming out of my children's mouths. I often respond hastily, because the laundry ain't gonna do itself. Ultimately, wether it's inadvertent or not, my children aren't feeling respected. That plays out in their treatment towards one another and their treatment towards my husband and I. I'm falling short in some really important ways. It's likely that many of us are, for varying reasons. We're tired, and we're busy. It takes a lot of extra effort to be mindful under those circumstances. It's easy to get lost in our phones and our televisions. 

Now isn't the time to languish in guilt. That's not why life presented me with this beautiful family for four days. This was an opportunity, a gift to reassess how I'm operating. And, I have it on good authority that it took effort and self evaluation for these parents to evolve into the stellar force that they've come to be.

A light has shown in a darkness, and I'm forever changed. This isn't the type of thing where you go on a diet and then eat a cupcake two days in, reasoning that you'll start again on Monday. This is my family. There is absolutely no excuse worthy of failure or transgressions. These little souls are going to be part of our lives, as children, for a very limited time. I can probably keep my sparkly countertops and still be far more present with my children. Showing your children the same deference that you desire of them takes no extra time, just more focus. Commingling with them, in their individual activities sporadically throughout the day, equates to the laundry hanging out in the basket for an extra hour or two. 

I hope you'll take away a few things from this:

1.  If you're going to be your own worst critic, do something about it. Guilt is a useless, fruitless endeavor.

2.  It's worth it to sit back and examine your feelings in reaction to something. Find the opportunity for growth in your experiences. Allow yourself to go deeper. Don't sell the process short by moving on from a little introspection too quickly. 

3.  Remember that most of our faulty methods of operating are coming from a noble place of self protection. Don't be too hard on yourself, but also don't use that as an excuse to stagnate.

4.  Finally, your kids, your marriage- always worth it. Put the work in. Too often these are the people we are the least respectful too and the most indulgent with, yet they love us the most. Don't just be decent, put one another on the pedestal that kind of love deserves.

Links to the blogs of Emily, the beautiful creature/mother I'm referencing, below. Learn from her. She's special.

HOW I SAVED MY MARRIAGE AND FOUND MYSELF.

When I met my husband, I was just coming off of a ten year relationship, four of which were spent married. And, when I say just coming off of, I mean the month after. I absolutely wasn't looking for anything serious, and wasn't sure I ever wanted to be married again, but was still fresh in the headspace of operating as a committed, married person. Being in something resembling that felt natural. I made it clear to my now husband, from the onset, that this wasn't going to turn into anything permanent and internally resolved the same. 

He was easy to talk to, understanding, we communicated similarly. Our conversations had depth. He was patient, and he really wanted our relationship to have a legitimate future. This left me with the upper hand, and that's not ever an optimal start. I was selfish, and I felt completely entitled to be so. I was in the process of healing and self discovery, trying to figure out where my blame lay in the dissolution of my marriage, and on a mission to reclaim my confidence and self worth. I couldn't risk failing again. It's easy to get lost in the minutiae when you're in the midst of an emotional battlefield. It's convoluted, and at the end, no one really wants to take the blame or sit around dissecting the ins and outs of something on the verge of being lost. 

I was fragile, but it presented as a lack of empathy and self involvement. Call it self preservation and protection. My now husband was compassionate enough to allow that and maybe a touch naive at the time. He was four years younger than me, idealistic, and inexperienced enough to accept my transgressions in the name of potential love. Pure good. 

It's incredibly difficult to start off on one side and then switch teams, especially when you were your team's biggest fan and greatest advocate. I fought hard to stay on that team. The dynamic of our relationship felt concreted, as did my mindset. I wasn't going to let him in, I couldn't allow myself to be vulnerable. It was too soon, and it didn't feel safe. Little did I know what was to come of our future and how damaging this subconscious choice, for lack of a better word, would become.

Seven months later, I was pregnant. One would think that may have shifted things, but it didn't. How to drop your emotional stance when you'd spent the entire relationship defending and honing it. 

Then there's the issue of believing your own bullshit. 

Don't think that things were ugly. I'm a nurterer by nature. I play the part of wife well. I'm not sure that my now husband even really knew that anything was amiss. I'd been going the motions for years prior, in a dysfunctional marriage, I was pretty adept at it. We married when our son was a year and a half. I knew, in my heart, that something was missing. I would tell myself that he wasn't right for me, we just weren't meant to be, arcane excuses from an ambiguous mind. In reality, he was doing everything right, and by all standards, I should've been madly in love. It took a long while before I was able to acknowledge that the only person who was lacking was me. 

I wasn't checked in. This manifested in a multitude of ways. It's still difficult for me to believe that he allowed it, but his desire to spare the loss of our family trumped his own needs, and if I'm being honest, my position in the relationship had slowly whittled away at him. I was hard on him, often quick to be dismissive of his needs and opinions. I tried to take charge of things I had no business being a part of, creating a mother/child dynamic around certain issues. I was feisty, always ready with a snide come back. I'd call it a subtle form of depracating, subdued and inconsistent enough to just toe the line, to keep from being completely found out, to keep from having to concede to myself what was happening. All this for the sake of maintaining my upper hand, insulating myself from the pain that true attachment can bring. I didn't want to have to leave someone that I loved again, because we just couldn't work. It was the most difficult, gut wrenching thing I'd ever done. So, in my disjointed emotional brain, the best protection was to not allow that level of attachment. Nonsensical and stupid, at best, and a devastating waste of time, years of potentially meaningful connection squandered. But, as Maya Angelou said, "When you know better, you do better," and I just didn't know any better, yet. 

I can't berate myself for the human action of avoiding pain. I wasn't consciously making the decision to act out these behaviors. That's how powerful the mind is, how immense the influence that fear has on the words coming out of our mouths, fooling us into believing false assumptions. I really didn't see any of it with clarity, and it's hard to share that I didn't begin to until much later. 

I don't want to be dismissive of my responsibility, cavalier about the pain that my husband endured while I meandered through the relationship with blinders on and mercurial emotions. I was aware, on an intuitive level, that I was an asshole, but I didn't know why, and I wasn't sure how to change it, because if I did, I knew, on a deeper level, that I might WANT to check in. I'm not even sure exactly when the realization occurred that I was manifesting the very thing I was most afraid of, a marriage destined to fail. 

The epiphany was the easy part. How to change something that was years in the making, how to turn an entire relational dynamic on its head, now that felt incredibly daunting. The task at hand involved retraining my brain, changing ME. The only tactic that seemed appropriate was deceptively basic;  "fake it til you make it". This was hard because it required, what felt like, a condition of inauthenticity. It also required me to know what the hell a healthy, madly in love wife looked like. From my husband's end, it called for him to endure what resembled a newfangled wife pretending. It all felt, somewhat, like a giant joke, but he's an outstanding human, and we have built an incredible little family, well worth every ounce of effort and temporary make believe. And, let's face it, the prize, unencumbered love... yeah, we're in. 

A metamorphosis of this caliber, demanded acting in extremes, in an attempt to find a reasonable middle, but it was still easier than I thought it would be. I owe most of that to Sean, for never making me feel like a fool, and for always indulging my unremitting need to talk about it, to beat the damn dead horse to smithereens. 

The hard part, as in breaking any habit, is sticking with it. I fell off the wagon any time a stressor entered the picture, a sick kid, a sleepless night, a disagreement. It didn't take much, and I never got back in the saddle as fast as I should have, but I did get back on the horse, and I still get back on that horse. Each time I stay on a little longer. Let me tell you, riding this horse feels pretty damn good, too. Being vulnerable with Sean doesn't scare me. I trust him implicitly. It's more about retraining my brain, breaking that habit of self protection. It has nothing to do with the context of our relationship or my faith in my husband, it never has. It was always me and my stuff, my fears. I can honestly say that I fall in love with him more each day. 

Sharing this isn't just about a fear of vulnerability. We all have ineffective ways of relating to others. Maybe they started in childhood. My vulnerability issues didn't exist solely because of a faulty first marriage. They were there for the duration of the first marriage, and we couldn't work through them. We both struggled with the same fears and personal feelings of inadequacy, and it was just too much for us to recognize and ultimately mend, at that time in our lives. Choosing to acknowledge where you're selling yourself short is daunting, but it's also incredibly liberating and reaps powerful rewards. Retraining the brain is a slow and difficult process that requires constant motivation, awareness, and accountability, over and over again, until the job is done. 

We've got this one life, and we owe it to ourselves to give all that we have to the pursuit of love and connection, because that's what it's all about. Taking a long hard look at our relationships, with a critical eye, and owning our own flawed processes, that prevent true and continued connection, is a journey well worth embarking upon. It's the journey your soul exists for. 

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME. NO, REALLY, IT'S ME.

This probably won't come as a surprise, but I love hosting parties and dinners, the prep work, the cleaning, the staging, the whole enchilada. I, more or less, exited the womb as a retiree. I wanted to be a grown up as soon as I could comprehend what the hell that meant. No slight to my parents, but I couldn't wait to move out and take care of a house. As a little girl, I had them remove my bed and put the pull out sofa in my room, so it felt like an "apartment." I never connected with cartoons, instead preferring the likes of Mork and Mindy and Laverne and Shirley. I played games like "teacher", and "librarian", and "waitress." A real hoot and holler of a kid. You can imagine all the raging fun that goes on in our house now that I actually am an adult. My poor husband and children. I'm not that bad, it just has to be "clean" fun, as in literally clean. Reading books, favorite activity. 

I digress from my original point. Hosting shit. There's an element of planning, always a win in my book, and then you have the execution which, without a doubt, floats my boat. I'm a bit of a raging bitch in the final moments, because of the self induced pressure to perform, but it's nothing that Sean can't handle with a swift removal of the children for a long drive in the car until I've wrapped up. He's learned that one can find something pleasurable and want to continue doing it, even while appearing to not be enjoying the process. Most of all, he's learned it's best not to point that part out. Just take the kids and get in the car. Don't come back until the floor is washed and my hair is dry. Then I pour myself a little glass of wine, and I'm a pleasure to be around. I'm in it for the build up and the slow unfolding. Love. It. 

So, this retiree by nature wasn't something I was aware of until the last few years. Obviously, the older I've gotten, the older I've become, as in at 20, I was probably akin to a 35 year old. Now, at 40, I'm like 60. That math doesn't work, but it's an accelerated process as you age, says me. Anyway, I assumed everyone was like me, as I think most of us do until we realize differently. 

This caused internal struggle for me, because I was going above and beyond, on the regular, and not noticing much, if any reciprocation. My first assumption was that people didn't like me. We're not just talking about cooking dinners, this is friendships, boyfriends, husbands, you name it. If I was going to all this trouble for them, and they weren't responding in kind, they must not care much about me one way or the other. I think I spent a good decade rolling around in that assumption. 

It took a long while for me to realize a couple pretty imperative things. 

Everyone is not like me. And, praise be for them, because it's a hell of a lot of work. Beyond that, they aren't really even giving me much thought. We're all pretty damn wrapped up in our own existences. Sure, we talk a lil' shit here and there about each other, but the amount of energy put in pretty much ends there, and if it doesn't, whatever your hang up is about someone else, it probably has more to do with you than them. Time for you to do some uncomfortable soul searching.

The other crucial realization I had was that I wasn't doing shit for anyone else, making elaborate dinners from scratch wasn't an ode to my guests. Bringing my husband breakfast in his office and reorganizing his closet wasn't for him. It was for me. I was doing it because I wanted to and enjoyed the process. Whether it's appreciated or reciprocated is neither here nor there. The minute I took that bit out of the equation was the moment I upped my enjoyment factor even more. It removed pressure and the possibility of resentment. 

A book that really moved me along in this process was "The Four Agreements" by Don Miguel Ruiz. I can't stress enough what an important read this is if you are a human. No one is immune from the lessons within. I read it a couple times per year, because I require constant reminders of how to operate without resentment. If you're a giver, this is a must do for you as well. 

Taking a long hard look at yourself hurts sometimes, most times, but the growth that you stand to gain makes every ounce of pain worth it. It's so easy to point the finger at the other. I've done plenty of it. Ultimately, how we respond to our experiences is what shapes our world. Taking responsibility for our perspective is empowering and it is, hands down, one of the best gifts we can give to ourselves. 

I AM ENOUGH.

I often find myself sitting at intersections, looking upon all of the cars and their inhabitants, not voyeuristically, but humanly, wondering what they're thinking about as they wait for the light to turn in their favor, or peeking into houses with lit windows on early morning runs, catching glimpses of moving bodies, curious as to what they're doing, what they're feeling, of their strife, their happiness. It's during times like these that I feel a deep kinship to my fellow beings. At our cores, we're all the same, wanting for love, connection, peace. We all wear bathrobes in the morning, wake up with bedheads, drink coffee, and relish our rituals to get through each day. These are the things I've had to remind myself of when trying to practice self acceptance, when trying not to judge myself to anyone else's standards. 

My fear of vulnerability, of not measuring up, equates to a lack of self worth. If I'm not A, B, and C, then I'm not worthy of love, friendship, attention. Me, at my core, stripped of all the overachieving business, doesn't feel noteworthy. Noteworthy and worthy being two different birds. I want to be noteworthy. 

I learned at a very young age, after feeling somewhat invisible, like there was nothing particularly noteworthy about me, that hard work got me attention, praise.  The voodoo that is positive reinforcement worked its wonderous magic, so I worked even harder, becoming better at everything I did, better than most everyone else, at the things I chose to put my efforts into. More attention came, and over time this way of existing was solidified. I didn't have to work very hard for it anymore, I had a reputation for being smart and able, and my hard work and thirst for knowledge had become innate. Now, even new acquaintances quickly realize that I possess these qualities, because this is my way of being. It has become authentic. I know no other way.

So, we'll say that at around age 6, I started developing my tendencies towards overachievement. Now, at 40, I exist as that woman. Do I berate myself for requiring that attention, that feeling of love and connection, worthiness, noteworthiness, at a young age and now, as a grown woman? Do I try to strip it all away, put an end to my weekly cleaning of baseboards and making bread from scratch, and just be, in the name of loving myself for whatever raw little person resides in there? Do I stop with the Martha Stewart bullshit completely? 

In years past, I may have thought that necessary to "heal", to identify the "authentic" me, but today, and a library full of self help books later, I realize that would be pure tomfoolery. I may as well beat my head against a brick wall in the hopes of breaking it, one mind numbing blow at a time. It's simply not gonna happen. Given that info, I have to ask myself, "what's so bad about Martha?" Yeah, she did go to prison, but criminal record aside, she's putting out some quality information. And, what's so bad about me? I am loved. I am connected. I am noteworthy. I am happy. I can say those things without pause, and that is enough. I am enough. Maybe, just maybe, I'm absolutely everything I was intended to be. Maybe my soul's journey always meant to take me here. Maybe my need for noteworthiness has left an imprint upon others. You're reading this right now, aren't you? Maybe, just maybe you're feeling like your curses have created gifts in your life, and maybe, most importantly, in this moment you are feeling like you are enough.

RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU HAVE A FEAR OF VULNERABILITY.

I've struggled with a fear of mediocrity for as long as I can remember. Failure isn't even the issue, it's about not excelling, or more precisely, not being labeled as the most adept. I've managed, quite aptly over the years, to beat out most people in the room at whatever it is I'm attempting and simultaneously to avoid everything that might threaten that outcome. I'm sure you know my type. You've seen us, we're the Martha Stewart's of the bunch. We've got our shit together. We've got an arsenal of information and advice and maintain organization and routine in even the most stressful of situations, all while baking organic vegan muffins. Our kids eat vegetables, we're the weirdos that love cleaning, making lists, yard work, and exercise. It doesn't even seem feasible to operate this way, but over the years I've honed my skills, and my life is as real on the inside as it looks on the outside. Intelligence is a minute component, although being regarded as intelligent is as important as the image we project. There's an intense motivation to succeed and that's what actually drives the level of achievement. 

But, there's a deeper layer lingering there, the true raison de etre, something my younger self wouldn't have seen and may not have been so quick to admit to even if I had. It's an intense fear of vulnerability. Or, at least, at its origins it was a fear. After years of self reflection and transparency, fear may no longer be the driving force. At this point, it's a habit, a way of living. I wouldn't even know how to be any other way. It would feel inauthentic and unnatural. 

Sharing this with you is less, for me, about picking apart why a fear of vulnerability exists. We'll get to that another time. Instead it's about being human and embracing your baggage, your modus of operandi. If you're a person, living in this world, you've got some shit. It's inevitable and that inevitability is beautiful. It unifies us as humans. We're all just trying to get through each day with our monkeys on our backs, learning how to traverse through our relationships with open wounds. We're never alone. It's the journey of our species, and I hope that you'll join me on mine, exploring the gifts that my scars have given me, while realizing your own perfect imperfection.