On Knowing Your Own Worth

When I have something to write, I like to let it sit for a while. When I have an idea, when I feel it in my bones, I formulate, thoughts, sentences, in my head. Sometimes they make it to my computer screen, sometimes they don’t. I’ve been thinking about worth a lot lately. It’s been on my mind a lot this year, after an incident in February made me question my own.

I was walking with my friend Caroline earlier this year, and I basically asked if I was lovable. I had told someone I loved them a couple weeks prior, and he completely rejected me, so my confidence was at an all time low. Caroline knows me really well. She knows my insecure, irrational thoughts. She knows my fears. She was once my roommate, so she has seem me tired, angry, frustrated, cranky, and mean. And she is still one of my best friends. So I think I needed validation from someone who has seen me at my worst, and loves me anyway. That I am worthy.

This is not really about that incident though, but what has come of it. When trauma happens, when pain and grief come, which they always do, you can let it consume you, or you can let it feed you. I was letting anger consume me earlier this year. It felt better than being consumed by pain. But anger is fire, it’s passion, it’s scalding hot, and I can’t live there. So I forgave the boy who broke my heart. And it’s not a “let’s be friends now” forgiveness. But the forgiveness lets me move forward, and use this experience to make myself stronger. It lets me try again with someone new. It keeps me from questioning if I deserve love.

I have a lot going for me right now. I am forever in debt to the universe for all it has given me. I have a place to call my own, filled with books, and furniture and food. I have a job with people I like, and allows me to live in a place where I can pursue my dreams. I have genuine true friends, good people that I would do anything for. I can’t even put into words what my family has done, and will do for me. My mom told me she raised a strong women when I was home last week. My co-worker said I have a quiet courage, that while I am shy, I have fire in me. I believe this is true. When my best friend left me last winter, I wondered what I would do, how I would move forward, but I am so far past that I don’t recognize the girl I was.

I am at a place where I love myself more days than I don’t, that I recognize my own worth, and how important that is, and I wanted to record that. I think that’s where this piece started, but I’m just realizing that now. I love my hair, and the way it’s never the same on any given day, the moles on my upper thighs, and the muscles in my arms from years of kickboxing. I love that I unabashedly snort when I laugh, and my hands can never sit still, and I can’t stop myself from making a sarcastic comment. I love that I will always reach out to my friends, and that if I like someone I don’t even try to hide it. I love that I’m really feminine, but at the same time, not at all. I have scars, but I know how to heal.

I love all the pieces of me, even the anxiety, the shyness, the insecurities. I love that I’m easy to make laugh, I jump even when something is not that scary, that I love adventure, but I’m ultimately a homebody. I love my dark eyes, and my turned up nose, and small hands. I am grateful, so grateful, for all the good in my life. Even when it is hard. Even when I’m burned. It is all mine, and it is all worth it.