Free To Be Me

Stepping up on the stage of life and saying it’s OK to be yourself

“Where there is much light, the shadow is deep.” — Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe (PC: Self, September 2023)

Although I’ve guarded our time and diligently committed to more “just being” days and evenings, my husband and I were rushing around last weekend with little time for me to sit in my skin and breathe. But on this 63-degree morning that feels a little bit like fall through the open windows, my coffee and I are reflecting over those four days from Friday to Monday. One overarching essence has planted below my sternum, sprouted through my chest, and bloomed in my mind: Be who you are.

Let me take a step back and explain.

We started off Friday night attending That’s What She Said in Indianapolis, where we heard powerful and vulnerable stories from brave warriors who had given themselves permission to be themselves.

The show is an outlet of The She Said Project, which gives women a platform to share extraordinary stories—and if you’ve been following my communication projects through the years, you know I am passionate about everyone having a story. In fact, I built a platform where I shared videos of the extraordinary stories of fellow Hoosiers. It’s called Ordinary Hoosiers, and though the website no longer exists, you can watch all the videos here.

She Said started 10 years ago by three friends in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, who wanted a better world for their daughters. They organized a live show, which was an immediate success that led to another show, and more. Friday night’s show was the first in Indianapolis.

The first speaker talked about being a caregiver to her mother with Alzheimer’s disease, and how sharing her “adventures” on social media helped her find humor and breathe in the stressful episodes that came with the disease—until family told her to stop. And she did, until she realized that outlet was saving her and also causing beautiful responses from those who barely knew her mom.

I’m not going to retell the story, because I wouldn’t do it justice, and it isn’t my story to tell. But I will share what I learned:

1. My story is my story and only I have the power to decide whether or not to share it.

2. Being vulnerable, transparent, and truthful—especially if you throw in a little humor—can change the world, even if it’s just one person’s world.

From that first story, I sat engrossed in each of the following nine women who stepped up to the microphone. I felt their struggle, their pain, their power. Each one shared how they overcame and realized their own worth in being. They recognized how their actions instigated positive change and connection for others.

I did this. I’m a good mother. I overcame. I am sober. I exceeded expectations. This happened because of me.

As easily as I felt their pain and struggle, feeling their power, self-acceptance, and declarations sat uncomfortably with me.

My natural inclination is to hide, to hold back, to keep “me” deep inside and protected, because if others don’t like or criticize what they see, their opinions would damage and consume me.

That’s why the thoughts I share with you about Life on Peoples Court is so important and my biggest act of bravery, even though I have difficulty accepting if a reader or friend says I’m brave to share so vulnerably.

Accepting my failures, my shortcomings, and my humiliations has always been difficult for me because I have a physical reaction that makes my breathing and chest feel paralyzed. I envy those who can easily laugh at themselves and not take everything so seriously. Nowadays, when I feel myself headed down that overthinking, self-deprecating path, I tell myself out loud, “Stop. Just stop,” and try to put whatever is setting me off into perspective.

I wish I’d gotten my mom’s humor. She laughed about the silly things she did—like buying two extremely full carts of groceries, packing them all in the car, climbing in to start the engine, and realizing she was in the wrong car. She unloaded all the groceries, found her car, and loaded them again—laughing all the way and repeatedly telling the story to anyone who would listen. The day she died, I felt like I had lost all humor in life—until recently, that is.

Had I done what my mom did, I would have been humiliated and devastated and ashamed and overthinking the situation for an eternity. I’m slowly learning to release the hold my mistakes have on me, but fully accepting myself—being OK with me—is more difficult. I’m a chronic sorry-er for anything and everything that might make someone view me poorly—and then I’m so sorry for being sorry.

I read a quote once—I don’t remember where and a quick internet search had multiple attributions—“What other people think of you is none of your business.” That keeps coming back to me in moments when I begin to fret. I know—with my mind—that what people think of me says more about them than it does me, but I feel—in my heart—an overpowering wave of insecurity. Ultimately, I want people to like me.

So hearing women sharing their stories with such empowered confidence made me a little uncomfortable, because I wondered why I couldn’t stand up and tell the world I’m OK with being me, that I love myself, that I am proud of my life. I suppose it starts with actually believing those words.

Sunday morning, a partner of my company hosted a tailgate party and tickets to the Indianapolis Colts season opener. I hesitated going—I hate football—but I want to be a team player and step outside my comfort zone. Plus, the tailgating had several buffet tables of amazing food—and an open bar.

Getting the chance to taste top-shelf bourbons for free may be like unlimited funds at the candy store. When hindsight tried to get me overthinking, a friend who was with us reminded me that I was having fun and I was OK—it’s OK if I have fun. So, her words allowed me to take a step back, realize I walked to the stadium on my own, didn’t slur my words, and remembered most everything that happened. I did have that little nap during the game, but I wasn’t watching anyway. I was reading Gap Creek by Robert Morgan.

Just so you know, sharing that story with you is proof that maybe the seed of being OK with myself has sprouted just a bit.

Monday night, we attended the Stone Belt Annual Celebration. Stone Belt is an agency that provides supports for people with developmental disabilities, and this event is one of our favorites—I not only get to see former coworkers and friends, but also clients who are dear to me.

If you haven’t experienced life among people with disabilities, you may not understand that they’re just like you and me—with hopes, dreams, plans, and desires—wanting to be seen as people, not as disabled people. Stone Belt empowers clients to make their own decisions about life, work, and love.

At this event each year, I’m reminded of that. Despite interruptions and disturbances, no one hushes, reprimands, or scolds the clients during the presentation. They are adults, not children, and Stone Belt, advocates, and community leaders treat them as such.

As I sat and watched that night, my heart filled with how much I should allow myself to be me, just as I would respect and accept each client to be themselves.

And just as I was thinking that, a dear friend greeted me with how much she was enjoying my writing in this space. I immediately panicked and blushed, naked and exposed, because I forget that I’m not writing these missives in a vacuum. I am sending them out for the world to read.

Why should receiving a compliment feel so uncomfortable? I’m a good writer (another statement that makes me cringe) and being vulnerable feels like I’m being true to myself—even if panic consumes me when a reader refers to something I’ve written.

Unfortunately, I tend to focus on those who might read my work and then say, “Eh,” or even harsher words. Writers tend to listen to one critic and ignore a multitude of love responses. I fear going all-in on praising myself or my work, because naysayers are just waiting for an opportunity to put me in my place.

If women of all shapes, professions, and experiences can stand on a stage and say, “I did this,” or “I’m doing this for me,” and if people with disabilities are accepted and respected as individuals and equals, then why shouldn’t I give myself the same grace?

I’m old enough with vast experiences to emphatically know that I will never be good enough for some people, so I’m trying with all my might to be enough for myself. Revealing my greatest weaknesses to the world, all the things that keep me captive in shame, frees me to move closer to accepting myself. While shame multiplies in the dark, confession and transparency shine light in the darkness, erasing the shadow of shame.

Each time I hit the send button, I’m taking a deep breath and trusting you as I share weaknesses and fears and failings. It’s my way of meeting myself where I am most authentic, even if it isn’t where I’m most comfortable. And I think somewhere in there is the ability to claim my worth and be OK with me.

How about you? Are you OK with being you?

Because I am OK with you. I’m glad you are you. You are unique and you are enough.

And, maybe—just maybe—I am, too.