No shame.

In 6th grade, Tony Moore called me fat. 

I was a good two feet taller than him with hips as wide as his shoulders. I was an inch away from being the same height I am today — a good 5’8”. Average for a young adult female. A little off by 6th grade standards.

He was tiny…I was “fat.”

I played it off like it was no big deal. We all knew he was a bully — to make up for the height I guess. But it was one of the first times I remember shame entering in to my awareness.

Growing up in the world I did — small town, small church, “important” and well-known family — I didn’t have to be any certain thing to have value. I simply had value because of who birthed me.

This changed once the importance of the outside world began to grow. 

My dad was an athlete…his kids played sports.

But I have not one athletic bone in my body.

We were preacher’s kids and “good, Christian” people. We were supposed to memorize bible verses and not have problems.

But I couldn’t memorize anything to save my life. And I grieved the pain of the world and things that confused me — and many things confused me. Like if Love is patient, kind, not jealous, and does not keep a record of wrongs, why were so many people in my church hurting because of the people who sat in the pew behind them? And if that was love why were my parents screaming at each other…all the time?

As a child, it is easier to take things at face value, without question. But as you grow — even just to sixth grade — and body parts begin to change, friends begin to decide there are more important things than simply playing together, life gets more complicated. The rules are altered.

Tony was not my first introduction to shame. Nor my last. In fact, looking back shame has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember.

I’ve been too big. Too skinny. Too loud. Too Southern. Too proper. Too quick to voice my opinion. Too quiet in taking on the opinions of others. I haven’t had a voice. I’ve screamed at the top of my lungs to be heard. I’ve been too smart for the dumb kids and too dumb for the smart kids. Not popular enough for the popular kids, but too popular to be mysterious. In high school, my attire consisted of Southern Outfitters, Converse, Birkenstocks, a cowgirl hat — I could be southern, redneck, emo, punk, or preppy all within the same week. I claimed to be “well-rounded,” but the truth was — I had no idea who I was. To choose to be anything was to risk being rejected by someone and my sense of self worth could not manage that kind of blow.

Authenticity seems to be an ongoing theme in my life these days so I am going to continue riding the wave until I have nothing left to say. Buckle up, folks.

I write this to say that…for twenty-five years I have carried around an identity of shame. Composed of unrealistic, perfectionistic expectations for a person completely different than who I was designed to be. Having a goal for a person to be an Olympic swimmer when they hate swimming? Not exactly reasonable.

Acceptance. 

To discover that the nagging, aching sense of unworthiness, unlovableness, that voice that says “you’ll never be good enough,” the knowing and trying to accept that “you’ll never fit it” despite your best attempts — to discover that is all a lie…and then to truly feel that heaviness release way down deep inside is freedom. 

You know those kids who wear different colored socks, with polka-dotted skirts, striped shirts, and rain boots on sunny days? …yeah. I was never one of those kids. A rule follower by nature, that was too outside of the black-goes-with-black-and-no-white-after-Labor-Day box.

After a quarter of a century of living, I finally feel the freedom to do this. How long shall we continue to wake up to a sea of individuality being swallowed up by uniformity? 

We were never meant to experience shame. We are made to love. We are made to celebrate beauty and life. And as you find freedom in accepting yourself for the perfectly, unique person you were made to be…the shame begins to slip away. In it’s place forgiveness moves in. Forgiveness of self and of others.

Twenty-five years later, I wake up and realize: I like me. Better than that, I love me. Not because I am perfect or because I have finally arrived. Not because I solved life’s mysteries…but because when you begin to allow yourself to simply be you…life gets easier. 

Captives are set free. Style and voice are found. Artistic expression, creativity, and appreciation of the simplicity of not being bound by the world’s expectations because you can accept yourself and that is all that matters… then life grows.

Wherever you’re at on this journey…I hope you know — or at least are discovering — the unique beauty that is you. 

{F. Scott. Fitzgerald}