Thank you for writing this article, Sarah Harvey! <3
“Why is it so damn hard to be myself?” I muttered one morning over the sound of crashing anxious thoughts and racing hummingbird heartbeats.
I woke up that day wanting to sob.
I opened my eyes and stumbled into a poisonous pool of self-hatred.
I whisked together a beautiful blueberry pancake breakfast and tore myself down, down, down.
From this dark, self-created pit of despair, I could see my self-confidence scamper off into the cloudy morning sky while my self-respect shrugged and ran off, too.
I felt so small.
Panic was ready to pounce.
And, sh*t, panic attacked me, no holds barred. It came on with such cruel ferociousness that I swear I was in a sweaty palmed, glossy eyed hell from 8:45 a.m. to 10:28 a.m.
I stood idly by as my fluttering, beast-like fears beat the shit out of me.
I struggled for air as salty, worried waters filled my lungs and tried to drown me.
Gasping, I choked violently on seaweed and self-doubt.
And, then, suddenly, as it always does, panic left the building.
I sat there, panting, reeling from the grand painfulness of it all.
As the waves in my heart become a smooth, sparkling sea, I felt something profound: this overwhelming desire to f*ck trying to be perfect. To f*ck pretending. And to finally just be me.
Yes, to just be me.
Those thoughts felt good. Really good. I could feel a deep buzzing in my belly along with the sweet promise of feisty little embers that would soon make a roaring fire in my soul.
I felt downright giddy and excited.
Because I’ve never been me.
I’ve always papier-mâchéd shiny sequins onto my spirit that other people thought would look good on me.
I’ve always sugar-coated my words and shoved my own opinions deep down my throat.
I’ve always bent over backwards to be liked and admired and accepted.
I can’t do it anymore.
Trying to be perfect is perfectly pointless.
Living to please others is not living at all.
So, I’m saying f*ck no to perfect and f*ck yes to being me.
By not trying so hard, for once.
By standing firm as an oak tree, rooted in the pure magnificence of my identity.
By letting my sore spirit soar into swirling guts of wind and spread her wings wider than wide.
By speaking my truths loudly, even when I’m shaking like mad, about to cry.
But most of all…
By listening to myself.
I will hear my heart’s pleas—anxious or not, panicked or not, sad or not—and spritz her with luscious drops of caramel laced love.
I will hear my soul’s screams, sobs and giggles, and honor her supreme, roaring fierceness.
I will look at myself in f*cking mirror and say so tenderly: “What do you need, my dear?”
And, then, I will perk my ears patiently and listen so hard.
Come with me.
Do you hear your precious heart thump, thump, thumping?
She’s goddamn beautiful.
What does she sound like?
What does she say?
Sit down, put your hand to your chest, and stay awhile.
Don’t look away from you own radiance.
Look right into it.
Be blinded by it.
Do you see who you are?
It’s written right on your heart.
You just forgot it was there.
You can be reminded anytime.
So, beautiful soul, say it with me.
F*ck no to perfect.
F*ck yes to being me.
Then say it again, louder.
Even louder now!
Say it until you run out of breath
From the sheer ferociousness
Of your empowered
F*ck no to perfect.
F*ck yes to being me.”