“It’s tempting to preface everything with “In my life I’ve found” so that people can’t yell at me for being wrong (I often am) or misinformed (sure) or overly emotional (HOW DARE YOU). But this is a book about my life so I have to simply hope that unsaid disclaimer is just implied. This is my life, and my observations of it, and they change as I change. That’s one of the frightening things about writing a book that no one ever tells you. You have to pin down your thoughts and opinions and then they exist on a page, ungrowing, forever. You may convince yourself that you were never stupid or coarse or ignorant but one day you reread your seventh-grade diary and rediscover the person who one day becomes you, and you vacillate between wanting to hug this unfinished, confused stranger and wanting to shake some damn sense into her.”
-Jenny Lawson, Furiously Happy
Sometimes I get nervous about the fact that I have a blog. My posts exist on a screen, “ungrowing, forever.” I can’t un-write what I’ve written. When I look back at previous posts, I find myself in the “ugh, what a horribly written sentence” or “stop trying so hard” camp. I find myself critiquing and face-palming while simultaneously laughing and remembering fondly. I find myself, like Lawson says – wanting to both hug my past self and shake some damn sense into her. But it’s not just reading back that invokes these emotions (I mean, my blog has only existed for three years… CALM DOWN), it’s looking back on life.
There is something to be said for surging full force into the future without a look behind you. Sometimes circumstances warrant a more “full speed ahead” approach. But I’ve found encouragement, shame, nostalgia, surprise, and most of all, value, in looking back. In looking behind me to see where I’ve been and where I am now. Sometimes it seems I’m still the 13 year old four-eyed, chicken-legged junior higher who mistakenly brought her home phone to school in her sweatshirt pocket and tried to call her mom from it. I’m still the too-chatty third grader who can’t hold in her laughter but who quickly becomes mortified and tomato-faced when reprimanded. Just because I am older, more confident, and (hopefully) more mature doesn’t mean I have moved past these things. I still have ditsy moments, feel embarrassment, and become weighed down by shame.
I am both who I am right now and the culmination of who I have been. Lawson describes her past self as an “unfinished, confused stranger,” and MAN, does that seem accurate. But what I have to remind myself is that in ten, heck, even two years, I’m going to look back on myself right now and say the exact same thing.
When I was a kid, I somehow thought once you got past your teens, you magically entered into the perfection phase of adulthood – where you didn’t mess up or act immaturely, and were able to escape all the mistakes and insecurities of the past. Well, I’m past my teens, and while I have gained so much, I am still an unfinished, confused stranger to who I will eventually be. It’s a process, and no matter how much therapy we go through or books we read, the insecurities and memories of our past selves are always going to be there. They may shrink and take different forms, but they won’t evaporate. And that’s okay. It’s just the reality of being human. And hey, there are 7.4 billion of us – so no worries – you’re not alone in this.
One of the most life-altering things I learned this past year was how to practice something called self-compassion. I define self-compassion as “who I want to be having compassion on who I am.” I am not, nor will ever be the fullness of who I want to be. But that doesn’t negate the value of striving to be her and forgiving myself through the process. Self-compassion is basically being a friend to yourself. We don’t look down on our friends for who they have been, so why do we treat ourselves so differently? I have to have respect for the journey and not fall into the enticing trap of self-loathing.
I’m currently in a transitional phase of life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever again feel like I’m not transitioning. I’m learning to sink into the discomfort and let it make me better. I’m learning to grow and mature without beating myself up for not doing it fast enough. I’m a work in progress, and so are you – whether you’re seven or seventy-three. Try to have a little compassion on yourself.
SINKING IN 
Yes. Yes. YES.
Growth is ongoing. Good and hard all at once. Transition allows for growth. But resting every once in a while is compassionate!