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harborshoreNote: this post uses myself as an example—I'm not doing it for sympathy (those posts tend to be clearly labelled something like "I need a hug, come give me one)—but as ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sinsense said at one point, it's the text I have to start from, so bear with me.
I wrote this last week, but it was missing an ending. It has one now. Warnings for honesty and babbling; you know how I roll.
A week or so ago, I was incredibly upset over a bad grade on an assignment I turned in after a weekend that was not so good on the mental health scale. But never mind that I turned in the assignment at all, or that I didn't fail it despite putting it together when I was at, uh, less than my best—I was really disappointed with myself.
And that's when it hit me. I've always known that I tend to hold myself to a very high standard, but this time, I suddenly heard myself thinking I was dumb and slow and unfit to be in my university program, even though I would have told anyone else who'd gone through the same thing that, oh, honey, first of all, it's not that bad of a grade, and getting it after that weekend is really fucking amazing. And I would have meant it wholeheartedly.
Why not? It's true.
So I started thinking about women and the way we tend to be so terrified of making mistakes, the way we beat ourselves up if we, say, forget to pay attention for a minute and miss a friend feeling sad, or we do notice but we fail to make them feel better; the way we struggle to put together the mom/working/friend/everything role and feel terrible if we don't measure up to what is effectively doing at least two and a half full-time jobs at once; the way we agonize over school until we can't breathe (the most common patient at my university's health center is an overworked, perfectionist female student); the way so many women don't try to play an instrument because they've been taught over and over again that if they make a mistake in public, someone will tear them down…
I know at least one person who fits each category up there. That, right there, is crazy, because I am very privileged in having a number of incredibly sweet, wonderful, bright, caring and talented friends, and they shouldn't have to feel this way.
No one should have to feel this way.
So what if we don't call ourselves a failure when something goes wrong? Because something will go wrong, eventually; life tends to trip you up when you least expect it and most need it not to happen. And when it does, what if we don't set our minds to repeating endless litanies of all the ways we could have done that differently (you know how they go), what if we stop ourselves instead? What if we make every effort to remember how human we are, how everyone misses a step sometimes?
Remember the things you did well. Remember the student you taught who grinned at you when class was over and told you she'd never understood anything in English class before. Remember the A you got on that Chemistry test last week when you're staring at a C- on a lab report. Remember the time you got out of bed when you really thought you'd never be able to stand up straight and smile again. Remember that time when the audience had no idea who you were when you walked on stage, but they were standing up and cheering when you left. Remember when you helped your friend keep going when she couldn't have done it otherwise. Remember the time you said that one tough truth someone really needed to hear. Remember that job, the one you learned in three days, to the amazement of your new boss. Remember the time you moved to a new state or a new country and it went really well. Remember the story you wrote, the one everyone, everyone loved.
And then, looking at all of those things, what if we realize that fuck, we're pretty amazing? Your achievements must be worth as much as your failures—anything else is patently unfair. But the things you did well and the things you didn't manage to pull off—they're not who you are. We measure others not by their achievements or failures but by their kindness, their empathy, their energy, the way they respond to us. Don't we owe it to ourselves to do the same?
sinsense said at one point, it's the text I have to start from, so bear with me.I wrote this last week, but it was missing an ending. It has one now. Warnings for honesty and babbling; you know how I roll.
A week or so ago, I was incredibly upset over a bad grade on an assignment I turned in after a weekend that was not so good on the mental health scale. But never mind that I turned in the assignment at all, or that I didn't fail it despite putting it together when I was at, uh, less than my best—I was really disappointed with myself.
And that's when it hit me. I've always known that I tend to hold myself to a very high standard, but this time, I suddenly heard myself thinking I was dumb and slow and unfit to be in my university program, even though I would have told anyone else who'd gone through the same thing that, oh, honey, first of all, it's not that bad of a grade, and getting it after that weekend is really fucking amazing. And I would have meant it wholeheartedly.
Why not? It's true.
So I started thinking about women and the way we tend to be so terrified of making mistakes, the way we beat ourselves up if we, say, forget to pay attention for a minute and miss a friend feeling sad, or we do notice but we fail to make them feel better; the way we struggle to put together the mom/working/friend/everything role and feel terrible if we don't measure up to what is effectively doing at least two and a half full-time jobs at once; the way we agonize over school until we can't breathe (the most common patient at my university's health center is an overworked, perfectionist female student); the way so many women don't try to play an instrument because they've been taught over and over again that if they make a mistake in public, someone will tear them down…
I know at least one person who fits each category up there. That, right there, is crazy, because I am very privileged in having a number of incredibly sweet, wonderful, bright, caring and talented friends, and they shouldn't have to feel this way.
No one should have to feel this way.
So what if we don't call ourselves a failure when something goes wrong? Because something will go wrong, eventually; life tends to trip you up when you least expect it and most need it not to happen. And when it does, what if we don't set our minds to repeating endless litanies of all the ways we could have done that differently (you know how they go), what if we stop ourselves instead? What if we make every effort to remember how human we are, how everyone misses a step sometimes?
Remember the things you did well. Remember the student you taught who grinned at you when class was over and told you she'd never understood anything in English class before. Remember the A you got on that Chemistry test last week when you're staring at a C- on a lab report. Remember the time you got out of bed when you really thought you'd never be able to stand up straight and smile again. Remember that time when the audience had no idea who you were when you walked on stage, but they were standing up and cheering when you left. Remember when you helped your friend keep going when she couldn't have done it otherwise. Remember the time you said that one tough truth someone really needed to hear. Remember that job, the one you learned in three days, to the amazement of your new boss. Remember the time you moved to a new state or a new country and it went really well. Remember the story you wrote, the one everyone, everyone loved.
And then, looking at all of those things, what if we realize that fuck, we're pretty amazing? Your achievements must be worth as much as your failures—anything else is patently unfair. But the things you did well and the things you didn't manage to pull off—they're not who you are. We measure others not by their achievements or failures but by their kindness, their empathy, their energy, the way they respond to us. Don't we owe it to ourselves to do the same?