Blue lights flashing, bright against the white snow, the sky dark, stars visible—although there was no time to look for them. I held my baby tight to my chest, bundled in blankets as I hurried down our driveway. His sister’s cries echoed in the otherwise quiet night, a cry of fear and confusion at our sudden disappearance. My heart was pounding, but I was outwardly calm, whispering to my little boy, “You’re ok, you’re ok,” desperate reassurance for us both.
I’ve always been a striver. I can’t pinpoint an exact event that led to this annoying quality that urges me to always do better, but I can see how it has affected so many of my relationships and decisions. As a teenager, I found myself to be awkward and unsure, but I carried a fake shield of confidence to distract me from my uncertainty about never being good enough. Though I appeared to some as being “cool” and “popular,” comments such as “He thinks you’re fat, Missy,” seriously fed into the insecurity that assured me I could never really be good enough.
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