Waffling on Self-Worth, or the Recovering Perfectionist's Manifesto

They're treacherous beasts, those little voices in our heads. You know, the ones that say things like, "You'll never be good enough to be a professional surfer! And by the way, you'd make a crappy physics professor and an even worse maid! Oh, and while we're at it, you can just forget about being an astronaut, punk. We both know that cardboard spaceship you built when you were seven was the least inspired craft in your neighborhood!"

When those voices get chattering, I tend to forget that I don't necessarily want to be a professional surfer, and I've always hated physics, and that my cardboard spaceship actually kind of rocked in an avant-garde sort of way. Instead, I fixate on the fact that I'm Never. Good. Enough. And it gets in my way.

I'll pick up a new hobby, and quickly abandon it on the basis that it's not going so well. "You'll never be any good at gardening," those little voices will say. "It's been five whole days and your seeds have not yet germinated. Give up now, Plant Killer!!!!!"

And I will. I'll be so afraid that the seedlings won't ever grow that I'll stop watering them. And then they don't grow. And then, as I feared, I discover that the little voices were right. And I believe them more, the next time.

Sometimes the voices aren't little. Sometimes they're real. A rather pesky know-it-all who exists on the perimeter of my life decided last weekend that I'm an unfit dog owner, based on several entirely incorrect assumptions she'd made and never bothered to verify. And so, armed with her sense of self-righteousness, she went on a campaign to stop me from adopting the dog for whom I've been searching for several months. I live in a vibrant, lively home. My children, Guy and I are physically active, financially secure, conscientious people who make decisions carefully and live our lives well. We bring our dogs everywhere we go; we diligently monitor their eating and pooping habits; and we shower them with love, affection, and organic training treats at every opportunity. So why was it that when a voice said, "Kate's not good enough", I stayed up for three nights, wondering if I'd made a mistake? Even when there was indisputable evidence to the contrary, why did I try to make myself believe her?

I have a tendency to believe the worst about myself. I jump on every little bit of evidence that I'm a crappy writer, a bad photographer, an awkward conversationalist. While deep inside I often beam with pride at the compassion and kindness that I've managed to teach my daughters somehow, there's always a question, just below the surface, of whether I've also messed them up. Is it possible, I wonder sometimes, that I'm just too dumb to notice all the millions of things I'm doing wrong?

Sometimes I like the fact that I'm a pretty thoughtful, reflective person. I'm proud, sometimes, that I have a gift for being able to see and understand every side of an issue, and that I'm not bound by a rigidity of spirit. I'm good at learning, and good at changing, and most days, I like that about myself. But then there are the days when I find myself wondering if I'm not nearly as smart as I think. What if it's not that I'm reflective, after all? What if I'm just so slow that I have to dwell on the things that are easy for everyone else?

As I'm writing this, I'm beating myself up for being narcissistic and self-absorbed, because honestly: Do I really think anyone cares about all the stuff that goes on in my brain?

It's enough to drive a girl crazy.

Tonight, I cried really hard because I turned in some photos a day late. They were late because I was so afraid of turning them in, because I convinced myself that I'm an artistic joke. When I finally sat down to look at my edits, I got so anxious about my worthiness as a human being that I decided to skip dinner with a bunch of people who I really like. Ah, Anxiety. You're a marvelous liar.

I've decided that I've had enough. Because while it may be true that I am a procrastinator and an artistic amateur and that I tend to be a bit neurotic and kind of flighty, I'm also smart and funny and kind. With a good editor, I'm an amazing writer, and with virtually anyone's writing, I'm a pretty good editor. I'm loving and compassionate, and once you've earned my trust, I'm a very loyal friend. I listen without judgment, and for the most part, I choose my words carefully. I love my children, and I show them that at every chance I get. I'm silly and playful and I laugh all the time. I love traveling because I adore learning about people who are different from me. And I like that about myself.

I will no longer fear that I am inadequate. I will live for the things I love, and love the things I live for. I will notice that, despite my fear of the outcome, I had a great time editing those photos. I will transfer the seedlings that are miraculously still sprouting in their starter-packs on my deck, and I will pat myself on the back for trying, every year, to add life to the world in whatever way I can. I will write and think and talk and laugh, and simply stop worrying about the voice of my own anxiety, or the voices of anyone else, for that matter. I will only listen to the voices of those who truly love me, and only listen to my own voice when it comes from a place of love.

I will be proud of the fact that my children know they are loved.

And while we're at it, I'll take a minute to feel some gratitude that I am curled up in my bed, by the love of my life, while our new dog and the Waffle Hound snore contentedly at our feet.

It's a gift, this life I have, and I am done packaging that gift in my own fears. And, despite the nagging little voice that's telling me that people will only think that I'm self-absorbed and small if I write about that, I'm going to challenge myself to defy those fears publicly, just in case I find that I'm not the only one who struggles this way.

I'll write about it here because, well, it's been three months since I've written, only because I have feared that I have nothing real to say.

But you know what? Writing makes me feel alive, even when it's scary. And from here on out, that's what it's about.