About Me — Elizabeth Montanaro
A portrait of perfect imperfection.
I’m not really a know-it-all or an expert in any specific area, but I’ve been around. I’ve been through some stuff and have found a way to use my life experiences as a launching pad for growth.
I grew up in a small town where summers were spent on the beach, and winters were spent ice skating on the lake down the street. We were a generation that grew up together from nursery school until we parted ways to go to college, remaining friends along the way.
Summer nights were spent attending Orchestra concerts at the boardwalk Pavillion, fishing with my brothers, and summer trips. Summers were a time to enjoy care free days and provided a chance to recover from less than positive school experiences
I was raised in a large Irish Catholic family, so there was always plenty of activity, and our home was rarely quiet. As the youngest, I learned vicariously from my siblings how to navigate through things both good and bad. There was plenty of love and encouragement from both my parents, and while no family is perfect, we all understood the concept of being loved unconditionally. My parents balanced each other and therefore provided relative stability with a few flecks of dysfunction.
We walked to the Catholic school in town on the same route past the same houses with the same apprehension each day. Uniformed flocks of sheep walking together to face the hosts of our daily education. We were at the mercy of the sisters of St. Joseph. Nurturing wasn’t exactly what they were known for — I’m not really sure what their collective skill set was, but they missed the classes on “warm and fuzzy” and Nurturing 101 . While they probably were not the worst group of nuns to be responsible for a child’s education, they managed to squelch any emergence of independent thinking or self-esteem. Under their regime, what they taught and said was the word of law and God. Any intellectual curiosity or questions were seen as an act of defiance and would be met with a hand, a ruler, or a book across the side of the head. Forget critical thinking; save that for college. The message was always loud and clear — the teachers would not tolerate independent and critical thinking skills, so if you have an idea, keep it to yourself. I never remembered hearing any of my peers gushing over their favorite nun. Nor do I have any fond memories of any of them. It was usually the opposite.
I spent most of my 6th, 7th, and 8th grades being called stupid on a daily basis because my math skills were mediocre at best. I’m not sure why I was a poor math student, but the more I was yelled at, the worse I was as a student. Needless to say it was a difficult time for me. I developed stomach problems that I only recognized later were a result of my daily school life.
I’m of the generation that if you get in trouble with a teacher or a teacher characterizes you in a certain way, then it must be accurate and, therefore, became a part of your internal landscape. There was no one to undo the criticism. No one was going home and sharing with their parents that sister so and so called you stupid for the 700th hundred time or whacked you across the head. It was done so often to so many of us that we conceived it as a normal part of school.
Fast forward to high school, college and graduate school. I developed a major math phobia but more importantly a nagging inferiority complex that plagued me for many years.
I’ve spent many years trying to quiet the harsh critic that would often be louder than the kinder voice fighting for more influence. But I always found it difficult to stand up to the voice that constantly reminded me that I’m not good enough because I’m just stupid.
The shift in thinking came in graduate school when one of my professors was chairperson of the Psychology Department. I had made an appointment because I had only achieved an A- in her class, and as the semester came to a close, I wanted to inquire about a way to raise my grade with an extra credit opportunity. Sweaty palms and on the verge of tears, she could see that there was more to the situation at hand.
She could see me much better than I could see myself. I had to have a 4.0. Otherwise, in my distorted thinking, I was a failure.
She was incredibly insightful and supportive but wouldn’t allow me to do anything to further improve my grade. She challenged me to sit with the discomfort of not being perfect so I could begin to see myself differently. After all how could I see my patients or clients as fallible humans if I had no compassion for myself? It was time to heal the wounded child.
This experience was the turning point in my life. I started therapy and from there I gave myself the latitude to make mistakes and not catastrophicize the missteps that would occur along the way. I learned to embrace mistakes as an opportunity to learn and grow. Doing so caused the critical voice to fade as time passed.
Fast forward again — it’s been 30 years since that pivotal conversation in my professor’s office.
She threw me a much needed life preserver that helped shape who I am today.
I’m proud to describe myself because I’m happy with who I am. I am a deeply compassionate imperfect human. I’m intelligent strong and capable. I love everything about me in the most humble way. I never think I’m better than anyone no matter what I have or what I do. The painful and destructive experiences are what make me a good model for my children who try to approach life in a similar way. Mistakes and not being the best at certain things should not define who you are or your value in this life.
Trying to be perfect to silence a voice only keeps that voice fed and well-nourished.
Self acceptance has been liberating and allows me the freedom to take risks that the perfectionist was too afraid to tackle.
I’m a mother and wife, a successful professional. I teach group fitness classes, and now, hopefully, I am a writer. These are the things I do, not the totality of who I am. This imperfect human has healed the wounded child who wasn’t good enough. Today, I have a sense of peace that allows me to be in the present and enjoy my life. I breathe with relief each day because the fight is over. For now at least.
