If you adopt a philosophical approach to things like that—always inquiring and going deeper—you may find more meaning in everything around you. Everything is worth a second glance.
I seek to look at the world through a new lens. Go on; give it a try. Look around you, wherever you are right now. What’s the first thing that catches your eye? What’s it made out of? Hmm, I wonder who chose that material. Where is it from? Wow! It came from thousands of miles away. What a journey that one little thing has been through.
You see? Anything you observe contains a story of interest, hidden behind a mask of simplicity. Looking at life this way forces you to appreciate your surroundings and helps you to understand that there’s more to everything than meets the eye. With this mind-set, maybe you’ll see the world a bit differently now.
The Fault in Our Scars
ONE NIGHT, WHEN I was eight years old, I accidentally rolled off my bed after tossing and turning in a sleep-filled daze. The unfortunate aspect of this middle-of-the-night tumble was that my bed sat a mere six inches away from the dresser. A solid, wooden dresser. With sharp edges. My face hit said dresser, leaving me with a black-and-blue bump that remains to this day on my forehead, dead center, just above my eyebrows. It’s a scar I’ve carried through life, and I loathe it. Like a dent on the hood of a car, it’s the first thing I see when I look in the mirror. Every. Single. Morning. Obviously there are wayyyyy worse things I could have wrong with me physically, and I shouldn’t complain. But I’m letting you in here and admitting to an insecurity that’s exacerbated in my line of work because my face is constantly on screen and available for the judgment of others. Sometimes I feel like the camera might as well be a large magnifying glass.
But we all carry scars that we have to deal with. This particular scar happens to be on the outside, but I have plenty on the inside as well, invisible to others. In fact, I’m willing to bet many people carry invisible scars. The scar of not being loved. The scar of verbal and mental abuse. The scar of abandonment. The scar of being taunted endlessly on the playground. The scar that heartbreak leaves behind. These invisible scars speak to a private struggle that very few of us dare to voice.
I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m not perfect. Ohhh, shocker! It’s easy to make it seem that way online, but I’m very insecure at times. My invisible scars mostly revolve around just wanting to be liked and to fit in. My whole life, all I wanted to do was be like everyone else and have everyone like me. I just wanted friends. I just wanted people to talk to me who appreciated me. And even to this day, as hard as I try, I still find myself sitting alone on my couch on some weekends with no invites to hang out. And when I do allow myself to be vulnerable and open with others, I never feel the emotions are reciprocated. With some “friends” I’ve had lately, it’s a bit like walking down a one-way street that doesn’t lead me anywhere I want to be.
But scars—inside and out—are only a big deal if we choose to focus on them and ignore the good things. I don’t want to trivialize the causes of some of the most damaging scars that a person could carry, but in my experience, if you let your scars own you, they will. Don’t give them that power. Don’t let them stunt your growth and progress.
What I’ve learned to do with the scar I carry on the outside—the one everyone can see—is switch my perspective. It’s not a scar to me anymore; it’s a unique marking and part of my identity. If your scar is invisible, I encourage you to either embrace or confront it. Don’t ignore it. Scars are daily reminders about something that happened to us—usually something significant. We should appreciate their presence, or at least acknowledge them and look at them in a different way. There’s nothing more inspiring than someone showing you a scar, telling you the story behind it, and letting you know he or she has accepted it and healed from it. I know I’d love to be able to do the same thing for each of my scars.
Someday.
If I Had an Art Installation
It’s 8:00 p.m. I’m on a date. The engrossing topic at hand? Art installations. Art is all around us, so any chance I get to talk about its endless depths, I’ll take. You see, I’m wildly obsessed with art.
After watching the documentary The Artist Is Present earlier this year, I had a particular fascination with that concept. In the film, the subject created an installation that involved herself, a table, two chairs, and an open invitation to anyone who wanted to join her at the table. And so it was that the question arose between me and my date: “If you could make an art installation, what would you create?”
With that, a thought immediately popped into my mind. I would create an exhibit that involved a room filled with people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, standing still. Completely naked.
The person viewing the exhibit would have to walk through a maze of bodies, making his or her way to the exit (taking whatever path he or she chose), along the way, viewing every type of person in his or her true form and thus an exposure to the rawness that is humanity stripped bare. In so doing—without the shield of fashion or the social masks we wear—each exhibitor is seen for who he or she truly is, and we get to see the reality that we are all individually unique, which is nothing short of beautiful. There is no hiding place. It’s as real as it gets. It’s art mirroring life.
Flawful
PEOPLE ARE BEAUTIFUL. All people, of all shapes and sizes. The fact that we are living, breathing organisms that happen to have opposable thumbs, allowing us to pick up our phone and be on it for the entire damn day, is nothing short of brilliant. What makes us even more magnificent as a species is that we are lucky enough to be uniquely different—and it’s THAT individuality we must each harness and celebrate.
We’re all pretty much stuck with what we’ve got appearance-wise, but more often than not, we fail to see our uniqueness as a good thing; instead, our differences lead us to make comparisons, with various likes and dislikes thrown in. Self-image can be daunting, especially when measured against our peers and the posters or photographs that the media project; it’s hard to accept who we are, with all our imperfections. I know how it feels because I have struggled with looking in that mirror and not being fully satisfied with what I see. We can be our worst, and harshest, critics.
I was about eight years old when I first fixated on something about my looks that I didn’t like.
“Mom?” I asked timidly as I ran into my parents’ bedroom one evening, wiping tears from my cheeks.
“Hey, sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asked.
Minutes earlier, I had gotten into a stupid fight with my older brother, Dustin. I can’t remember what it was what about—probably something to do with a video game or who got the remote control while watching TV. (Oh, the power the remote provided when growing up.) I must have won our fight because my brother’s low blow of a response was hard and fast: “Well, at least I’m not fat!!”
Ouch. I remember the sting those words left—like a football to the face in the middle of winter. An uncontrollable stream of tears formed quickly, and I turned and ran up the stairs to find Mom.
“Am I fat?” I asked.
“Honey,” she said, sympathetically, “do you think you’re fat?”
Until my brother had said it out loud, I hadn’t really thought about it. Well, maybe a little. But his jab had vocalized that fleeting thought of mine.
“I don’t know!” I replied, confused, triggering the tears once more. “Maybe.”
Mom was quick to console me and eager to remove all judgment from the equation. “Well,” she said, “if you think that, are you okay with it?”
In my worked-up state, I didn’t know what to think. “I think so,” I sniffled.
Then she came out with a pearl of wisdom that has always stuck with me: “If you like you, that’s all that matters. If you don’t, then maybe you could work out why that is.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my mom is the best. Somebody give that woman a mother-of-the-year trophy, stat!
I find i
t so interesting that for a period in everyone’s life, we are completely innocent: no worries, no troubles, barely a care in the world. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could harness that carefree spirit and walk through life in its protective bubble? I bet it’s nice never to worry. I can’t recall the last time I didn’t have something keeping me wide awake at night. When we’re kids, the biggest thing we have to worry about is whether we want white or chocolate milk at lunch. Those were the days. (Yet again I sound like I’m an middle-aged adult. *rolls eye at self*)
Anyway, I decided to ask a couple of friends how old they were when they first found something about themselves they didn’t like. Each had the same response: “I was between eight and ten.”
I’m never going to look at a kid in that age range the same way again. In my mind’s eye, I see a small eight- to ten-year-old child and I think, “Oh, you poor, poor thing. You’re about to go through some rough patches, but it’ll get better. But first, it gets so much worse.” *pats child on head, walks away*
But this proves that we’re all in this together, experiencing the same kind of insecurities, feeling similar things like self-doubt and self-judgment. Sure, some guys and girls are better at concealing it than others, but those same negative thoughts go through our heads when they stand in front of the mirror naked or walk into a crowded classroom after the bell. Confidence and smiles are just the masks we learn to wear from a young age; maybe we allow those masks to fall with our close friends and family because they’re the only people with whom we can truly be ourselves.
To this day, I still don’t like every single thing about my appearance. I constantly flash back to my childhood weight issues or ponder the bump on my forehead, my slight underbite, the awkward amount of hair on my body, and too many other things. To be honest, it can be exhausting at times.
Raise your hand if you like every single aspect of your appearance. Unless Beyoncé is reading this book, there should be no hands in the air. (And if Beyoncé is reading this, then, um, heyyyyyyyy, Queen Bey!! *smiles and waves like a madman*)
It’s normal to grow up and dislike things about ourselves. It’s human. It’s what discovering our individuality is all about. All of us overmagnify our self-perceived flaws, be it a scar from falling out of a bed, a birthmark, a zit, a not-so-classic facial feature, or the general shape of our figure. But if we all ran around as perfect, plastic clones, then the world would be a boring, bleak place. The “flaws” we carry are all part and parcel of our uniqueness. But let me tell you something: no one else cares about your flaws. Truly, I’m saying this in the nicest, kindest way: no one notices them but you. It’s all in your head.
I’m always shocked to learn that most people don’t notice the bump on my forehead because to me, it protrudes like a freaking lighthouse, sending an SOS signal to everyone in the general vicinity. I’ve even been told that this “flaw” is cute. CUTE. Apparently others adore about me the thing I hate most.
And there lies my point: once we learn to accept who we are, imperfections and all, then—and only then—can we achieve our full potential. Forget about negative self-image and self-judgment. It’s about self-love, and no one teaches you that at school. No one teaches you that if you accept and love yourself, nothing and no one can touch you.
This is the only face and body you’re ever going to get, so be comfortable and happy in it. Own it. Own every aspect of who you are and present it to the world with the utmost pride.
Numb to the Numbers
THE SOCIAL GENERATION has taken over. If you don’t tweet on the daily, receive dozens of likes on Instagram photos, and know what the heck Tumblr is, then you best get to Googling because you’ve been left behind.
Or you’re, like, forty. It seems that every person in our ever-connected world is on some form of social media. (If you’re one of the few who isn’t, I applaud you. Stay. Away. That shit is more addictive than a fresh jar of Nutella on a lonely Friday evening.) Our lives are never offline, and we’re permanently logged in. One foot in the moment, one foot somewhere else entirely. In this cyber-reality—one in which we can now wear and carry our computers at all times—it’s difficult not to get caught up in the bubble of “likes,” thumbs-ups, ratings, comments, and general Internet chatter—and therein lies THE TRAP for our self-esteem. The trap that awaits us all: the importance of being liked.
As a generation, we seem to glean a sense of validation from the numbers, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. I read somewhere that a popular post or photo rewards us with a rush of endorphins—hence the addiction. It’s science, people. Don’t deny it. What’s clear is that the higher the number of likes—or retweets—the better the feeling. But the importance attached to it is false. None of us should measure our self-esteem or popularity by numbers. Social media is the most warped mirror to look into.
I’m the first to admit that I’m over the moon if I receive over 100,000 likes on a YouTube video. Hitting that number makes me feel that I’ve created content that’s pretty darn good and something I should be proud of. When I stop to truly think about it, that’s a huge number of clicks! Think about it: 100,000 unique people watched my video and decided it worthy of taking two extra seconds to move their mouse cursor over the little green thumbs-up button and . . . CLICK! That’s incredible to me.
But, you know what? I don’t even know those people, and that’s the reality check I had to give myself a long time ago. Yes, I remember when my first 50 likes meant something, but after a while, the numbers—from 100 to 100,000 to 1 million to infinity and beyond—became figures without meaning, and I’m happy it’s gotten to that point. A number doesn’t validate who I am or what I’m doing.
Not that I’m immune to the trap. If I get only ten likes on a personal Facebook post, that sucks! Like, wow, okay, none of my REAL friends thought my photo was cute, or that status was hilarious, or my birthday was worthy of a personal message. *sobs heavily*
But we should always check in with ourselves and maintain a grip on reality. Same with taking selfies. “It’s okay to take selfies all the time,” I’ve heard it said, “because that means you’re happy with the way you look and want to show people you’re confident.” I couldn’t agree more. But you also risk seeming self-indulgent and egotistical. You risk measuring your self-worth by the number of likes you receive. Here’s the bottom line: if you’re truly confident, you don’t need to seek the likes of others. And if you’re not so confident, then fuel your self-esteem with the love of your friends and family.
It’s okay to want to be liked. It’s okay to seek likes. But it’s not okay if you allow those likes to become the foundation of your sense of self-worth, because other people might not be putting a whole lot of thought into the process of liking—or not liking—your photos or posts. Remember that likes are just numbers—they don’t add anything to your personal value. I know it’s easy to get wrapped up in it all, but take it from someone who has experienced all levels of appreciation: None of it matters.
The best way to avoid falling into the trap is to stop paying attention to the likes. Take the photo. Post the video. Tweet the tweet. And that’s it. Don’t look back and let the number, high or low, make you feel any better or worse. It’s a vicious cycle that you don’t want to get caught up in. Have confidence in yourself and what you put out into the world.
Be numb to the numbers. Don’t let the numbers numb you.
Say No
No. NO. nO. Noooooooo. no.
No matter how I say it, saying “no” is difficult for me. That word doesn’t strike my vocal cords naturally, especially when I don’t want to do something or go somewhere. My mind is saying NO! but I can’t get myself to say it out loud. It’s probably because I’m a people pleaser—too concerned with being polite and not letting people down instead of honoring my true wishes. It seems I’d rather do something I don’t enjoy than have someone I’m with have a poor time or be upset with me. That said, I’m determined to overcome this block. I’m lear
ning slowly that the world won’t end if I utter that scary two-letter word. People won’t hate me. Things won’t crumble to pieces. In fact, the honesty may be appreciated and a compromise will most likely be found.
So, here, say it out loud with me: NO.
Wait, I Just Need to Check Something . . .
SO EVERYONE’S AGREED: we’re all a little too obsessed with technology. In fact, I’m willing to bet my left pinky toe that you have a phone on your person right this second.
Did I win the bet?
Yup, that’s what I thought. Our phones have become another limb, it seems. “Oops, we need to go back! Forgot my phone!” or “Can we wait a couple minutes while my phone charges? I don’t want it to die while we’re out.” I hear such things on a daily basis, uttered in the kind of tone that hints at fear and separation anxiety. Why is it that we can’t do anything without bringing this little computer box with us?
Being a child of the digital age, it’s difficult for me to question this habit because, frankly, I fucking love my phone. I’m guilty of being glued to mine all the time. I’m not much better than the next person. But here’s the thing: I am aware of how overly attached I’ve become, and, since acknowledging this issue, I’ve gotten better.
One of my favorite things to do when at dinner with friends is to play the “all phones in the center of the table” game. Basically, everyone turns their phones on silent and places them in the no-touching zone on the table. The first person to reach out and use it must pay for dinner. Works like a charm, because, out of pure economic fear, no one ever grabs their cell first. OH, THE HUMANITY!
The beauty of this enforced phone withdrawal is that all technodistractions are removed. We are compelled to interact and communicate directly with one another, and it’s refreshing. As someone whose job is to be online 24/7, I savor the break from the virtual world. It’s like, “Nope, can’t reply for the next hour or two! I’m busy.” Busy spending time with friends—quality, uninterrupted time.
A Work in Progress Page 6