Meet 1989 Michelle. 

This is my senior portrait. Back in the 80's, this is what we did. No leaning on brick walls or posing in the middle of a field. We went to a studio with a pull-down background and hot lights where we were posed by strangers while our mothers coached from behind.

Do you see the pain in her eyes?

It's not because she was holding the rental cap at a strange height ("That's too high," one argued. "That's too low," said another. It finally landed in a position that made it look like she should be serving that someone tea on it.) And it's not because of the orange-toned makeup job that made her look like a chipper Oompa Loompa, either. It definitely wasn't because of her hair.She'd had short hair the first three years of high school, so her chin-length mane of hair was my glory. 

The pain in this senior portrait came from somewhere else.

In fact, this isn't even her, or my, senior portrait. This is my the "proof" from which I would have chosen to order my official senior portraits from . . . if I would have graduated.

But I didn't graduate. And there is the source of her pain.

Actually, not graduating is a painful regret, but the pain started long before then.

I had a good life and was raised in a typical, loving home. My pain came from within. I believed lies the adversary told me, my peers told me, Hollywood told me, and I added to them my own.

I held onto these barbed lies firmly during my teenage years.

I was stupid.

I was ugly.

I was annoying.

I wasn't likable.

I wasn't lovable.

I wasn't important.

I was invisible.

I didn't matter.

These lies acted as rudders that steered my steps, the very steps that led me away from people and opportunities that could have blessed me, to a sad place inside myself.

No, it was not total misery. People I ask now tell me I was vivacious and outgoing, cute and funny, and well-liked. But the lenses through which I viewed myself and my life then, and perhaps the way I look back on it now, are tinted very darkly. Yes, I had joy and friends and fun. The pain wasn't apparent  or constant, but it was real and deep. 

I am sad for 1989 Michelle. I can see how she got in her own way. I can see how her fear of believing she could be something special only to be proven wrong kept hope at bay.

I wish I could go back and hug 1989 Michelle, and tell her she's okay. No, not just okay. That she is awesome. I wish I could tell her to not care what others think. I wish I could tell her to claim the power she had to decide her value, rather than giving it to other broken people who were just trying to figure themselves out. I wish I could tell her she was smart and college would be a wonderful and reachable goal. I wish I could tell her to trust God more, and to trust in herself more. I wish I could tell her to open her eyes and see the love that's around her.

1991 Michelle began to figure it out as she prepared for her mission.

1999 Michelle, married with two small kids, was strong on the path towards healing.

2009 Michelle, about to welcome a third child by adoption and just discovering a love of writing, was ever further along that path.

And now, 2019 Michelle has got a good grasp on things. I, now 48-years old, feel settled and happy in who I am. I am smart and kind and loving. I am confident and assured. I find joy in serving and don't seek approval for being. I like how I look and how I act. I love me, and because of that, I can love others more freely.

Life is difficult in other ways. I'm not perfect at all. But I have the ability now to recognize when I get in my own way and have the strength (thanks to God) to step aside.

I can't go back and take 1989 Michelle's pain away, but I can make sure I don't hold onto it. 

For her, I'll take all the good she didn't see in herself and see it in me and others now. 

For her, I'll find another girl, teen, or woman that can't seem to get out of her own way, and gently take her by the hand and help her step aside.

For her, I can love me now and her then.

For her, I can dismiss regret and thank her for being brave in the darkness.

For her, I can be happy.

I love the power of words-not just what they are but how we read them. It's much like ourselves. How do we choose to see ourselves?

I've seen prose written this way before, and I thought I'd take a stab at it. It was a surprisingly moving exercise in recognizing the dichotomy of emotions that lie within ourselves and our ability and right to choose which ones we give power to and, in that sense, give to or take power from ourselves.

Who do you know you are?

The power of "could" (A.K.A Stop "shoulding" all over yourself.)

7th grade me, at the start of my educational decline.

Sometimes I feel really smart. Other times not so much.

I didn’t graduate from high school. I skipped classes, got bad grades, and hid behind humor. I got my GED two years later. I’ve gone to bits of college here and there but no degree. I’ve had jobs here and there throughout the years but no career.

For a long time I felt unsmart--stupid.

Writing has made me feel smart, made me realize I actually have something in my brain.

Most times I am okay, really. I understand that formal education doesn't translate directly to intelligence. I've met plenty of college graduations that can't think for themselves.

But, still, there are times when I feel dumb. And I HATE FEELING DUMB.

Case in point, a while ago I went on a job interview. I was nailing it. Eye contact, solid answers, confident smile. I had it in the bag.

Then, right in the middle and out of the blue, the interviewer says the worst possible thing could say, "We are going to have a math test."

Huh? First of all, what's this we? Is he going to take it with me? And second of all, a math test? Who gives a math test in an interview?

That guy does.

I felt sick. I never made it past Algebra 1 in school. Math is my kryptonite, right next to liquid eyeliner and cleaning the bathroom.

He smiles and says, “If you receive an invoice for $3248.56, which includes a tax of 0.917%, how much would the total of just the bill be?"

People. I froze.

I didn’t know how to do it. 

Not only was it a dumb question, but I felt like a dumb person. 

Time slowed down.

I stared at the calculator in my hand, then to him, then back down to my calculator. 

My mind was blank. Nothing. 

I punched some random numbers hoping the answer would magically appear, but nothing came.

I felt embarrassed, ashamed. Humiliated.

Stupid.

That wasn’t his intent. Numbers are a big part of the job.

Still.

I wanted to cry right there.

I really wanted to slide out of my chair and sneak out the door. Though, he may have noticed a skirt-clad woman doing the army crawl across the floor.

The was another gentleman on the interview panel. I glanced up at him, hoping he couldn't see me dying inside. 

My nearly tearing up eyes rested on the calculator in my hand one last time as I prepared myself for what I'd have to say next.

I looked up at the interviewer, breathed in courage, swallowed a huge slice of humble pie, and with a wide said, “I’m sorry. I can’t recall the specific formula. But that’s okay, because this is the perfect time for me to show you how honest I am when there is something I need help with, and what a fast learner I am as well.”

He laughed and offered to write the problem out for me. Once the equation was in front of me, the old brain kicked in and I knew how to solve it.

Now, I could stop here and talk about how we can take difficult moments and make something good out of them. Or I could talk about how our "control room"--that place we go in the time between what happens to us and how we respond, that I shared in my second book.

But I'm not. Not yet.

I wasn't thinking about any of that stuff. In fact, I cried the entire way home.

I’m 46. And I felt like a 15-year-old in high school again. Embarrassed. Stupid. Small.

And it stung.

The next day I received an email from the guy. He invited back for a second interview. His manager wanted to meet me.

Really?

I was stunned. I thought my embarrassingly obvious ineptitude had sealed my fate.

But it didn't.

I never found out why they wanted me back because I never went to the second interview. I took another job offer instead which, luckily, had me teaching special needs children--something I love doing that, luckily, doesn't require algebraic skills.

That moment in the interview, for me, was a seminal moment in my life. It was a moment I faced deep shame and regret and didn't give it power over me.

I took the power away from shame and regret.

I took the power and changed it into something good.

Even if I'd never been called back for another interview, I feel like I succeeded.

I still harbor some negative feelings about my educational past. I know I made mistakes. I wish I would have made better choices. But I cannot let regret keep me from progress.  You know the saying, "life is full of should-of-dones", right?

Well, I think I am tired of shoulding all over myself.

I loved that moment in the interview--the moment courage stepped past fear and doubt. The moment I could be confident when all the "evidence" proved otherwise. The moment I took control of who I was and want to be.

Yes, I should have taken school seriously. I should have had more confidence in myself. I should have gone to college after high school. I should have gotten my degeree.

Should.

Should.

Should.

See, shoulding on myself is easy.

But, I don't want to do that anymore. I need to stop shoulding all over myself. It stinks.

In that moment in the interview, I had to walk past should and grab hold of could.

I want to keep doing that.

I could go back to school now and get a degree. I could study worldly topics at home. Or I could simply realize I am really smart, even if I don't.

Could.

Could.

Could.

I like could. It's a nice word, filled with possibilities.

Could.

No regret or shame.

Could.

It's hope and choices and potential.

I could do so many wonderful things if I leave my should where it belongs: in the outhouse with the rest of the crap.

And I think I will.

Who's Awesome?

(Throwback Thursdays, where I share some of my favorite past posts.)

Ever had those days where you feel completely un-awesome? I do. I look around at my messy house, my riotous children (my youngest was running laps at the frozen yogurt place today), my hair in a bun for the fourth straight day, and I feel un-awesome.

It's easy to feel awesome when things are great, but it's during those other times that we need to remind ourselves what awesomeness really isn't and is.

Awesomeness isn't a perfectly clean house, perfectly obedient children, homemade meals every night made while we wear pearls and an apron in the kitchen. It isn't the size of our pants, the color of our skin or hair, or the length of our nails. Awesomeness can't be measured by money or things.

So, what is awesome, then? 

These things are Awesome: love, gratitude, forgiveness, kindness, mercy, empathy, humility, patience, sacrifice, service, and love (yes, I said it twice, because love is doubly awesome).

I'm not perfect at anything on this list, but I've got pieces of them in me. And these pieces join together to create something beautiful, something awesome.

That's the way God intends me to be--awesome. That's the way He wants me to see myself. I am awesome, and I won't apologize for it. I can't apologize for it. It would be rude. God made me that way, and He doesn't make mistakes.

So I go on living my awesome life, being as awesome as I can. And when I forget, I simply have to remind myself that He made me this way. He made me awesome.



And He made you Awesome, too. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. They don't know you like He does. He know who you are and what you can accomplish.



On the days that you might be feeling un-awesome, don't think about it too much. Just remember that.He knows you're awesome, because He made you that way.


You don't have to be everything to be awesome. The word isn't allsome for a reason. It's awesome . . . like you.

Now, go forward, with a smile on your face (mustache optional) and Just. Be. Awesome.

And remember, we are pretty much at the top of the Awesome Meter.
And the Awesome Meter never lies.