Finally Choosing Me

When I started trying to figure out who I was outside of being someone’s mother, daughter, partner, nurse, fixer, rescuer and general manager of everyone else’s emergencies, I think I believed there was going to be an endpoint.

Not consciously.

I didn’t have it written on a vision board.

But somewhere in my head lived a future version of me.

She had her shit together.

Completely.

Her boundaries were firm.

She said no without immediately wanting to apologize.

She loved her body.

Her house was organized.

She remembered things without sticky notes.

She had healthy relationships.

She didn’t spend money impulsively.

She didn’t retreat into her bedroom until she had to remind herself to participate in life.

She definitely put her shoes away without requiring written instructions on the bathroom door.

Basically, she was me…

after I finished fixing me.

I’ve been waiting for her for a while now.

I’m starting to think she’s not coming.

This Was Supposed to Be the Transformation Part

I did all kinds of things that felt like they should have produced some sort of final version.

I lost around 100 pounds.

I went back to school.

I built a career.

I moved across the country.

I started setting boundaries.

I went to therapy.

I changed my hair.

I got tattoos.

I got piercings.

I wore the clothes.

I created a home that felt like mine.

I learned how much I love peace.

I survived grief.

I started figuring out which relationships were mine to maintain and which problems were mine to solve.

Hell, I started an entire blog called Finally Choosing Me.

Surely at some point someone was supposed to hand me a certificate.

Congratulations. You have successfully found yourself.

Please proceed directly to the section of life where everything makes sense.

Apparently there is no certificate.

Rude.

“Finally” May Have Been the Problem

The word finally is interesting.

Finally Choosing Me.

When I chose the name, it represented something huge.

For so much of my life, I had been somewhere toward the bottom of my own list.

Everybody else’s needs came first.

Everybody else’s feelings mattered.

Everybody else’s emergencies became mine.

So finally choosing myself mattered.

It still does.

But I think somewhere along the way, I accidentally gave finally another meaning.

Like choosing myself was something I could complete.

As if I would eventually arrive at a version of myself who never slipped backward.

Never questioned a boundary.

Never hated what she saw in the mirror.

Never isolated too long.

Never tried to fix something that wasn’t hers to fix.

Never needed a damn sticky note.

That’s not what happened.

Apparently, I Have to Keep Choosing Me

Sometimes choosing myself looks impressive.

It looks like making a major life decision.

Setting a boundary.

Walking away from something unhealthy.

Trying something I was once afraid to do.

Wearing the outfit I would have hidden from before.

Those are the moments that make good inspirational quotes.

Then there are the other ones.

Choosing myself can also look like going downstairs when I’d rather stay in my room.

Taking my medication because the sticky note told me to.

Putting my shoes away.

Saying no and then sitting with the guilt instead of changing my answer.

Looking at my stomach in a fitted shirt and leaving the house anyway.

Listening when someone tells me I’ve hurt them instead of immediately preparing my defense.

Letting someone I love make a decision I wouldn’t make for them.

Going to therapy and discovering, yet again, that apparently I have created another impossible standard for myself.

Very inspiring.

Someone put that on a coffee mug.

Healing Has Been Annoyingly Nonlinear

I’ve had moments when I thought:

I’ve got this now.

And sometimes I did.

Then something happened and suddenly I was responding from an old wound I thought I’d already dealt with.

That’s irritating.

I paid attention in therapy.

I learned the lesson.

Why are we covering this material again?

Apparently personal growth does not operate like college credits.

You don’t complete Boundaries 101 and become permanently exempt from guilt.

You don’t pass Body Acceptance and never criticize yourself again.

You don’t finish People Pleasing and receive lifetime immunity from the urge to fix everyone’s problems.

Sometimes you learn something.

Then you learn it again.

And again.

Only each time, maybe you notice it a little sooner.

Maybe you recover a little faster.

Maybe you make a different choice once out of ten times.

Then three times.

Then five.

Maybe that’s progress too.

I Don’t Think I’m Going to Find Myself

That’s another thing I’ve started questioning.

For years I’ve talked about finding myself.

But finding implies that somewhere out there is a completed version of me who has been patiently waiting to be discovered.

I’m not sure I believe that anymore.

I think I’m creating her.

And changing her.

And occasionally confusing the hell out of her.

I’m not the woman I was at 30.

I’m not the woman I was at 40.

I’m not even exactly the woman who started this blog.

And thank God for that.

Because maybe the goal was never to finally figure out exactly who I am and remain that person forever.

Maybe the goal is to keep giving myself permission to change.

So What Does “Finally Choosing Me” Mean Now?

It doesn’t mean I’ve finally mastered boundaries.

I haven’t.

It doesn’t mean I finally love my body.

Some days I don’t.

It doesn’t mean I’m organized.

Please see the sticky notes.

It doesn’t mean I no longer hide when I’m overwhelmed.

Sometimes I do.

It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying to fix people.

I’m working on it.

And it definitely doesn’t mean I’ve stopped making mistakes.

What it means is that I’m finally paying attention to myself too.

My needs.

My feelings.

My mistakes.

My wants.

My limits.

My responsibility.

My joy.

Not instead of everybody else.

Alongside them.

Maybe that’s the part I didn’t understand when I started.

Choosing me isn’t one giant decision I make once.

It’s hundreds of small decisions.

And some days I don’t choose particularly well.

Then I get another chance.

There Is No Finished Version

I’m beginning to think that’s actually good news.

Because if there isn’t some perfect future version of me waiting at the finish line, I can stop being angry with the woman standing here for not becoming her fast enough.

This woman still needs sticky notes.

She still has complicated relationships.

She still struggles with her reflection.

She still needs solitude and sometimes takes too much of it.

She still says yes when she wishes she’d said no.

She still gets things wrong.

But she’s also learning.

She’s listening more.

She’s laughing at herself more.

She’s trying things.

She’s wearing more color.

She’s telling the truth about the parts that aren’t pretty.

And she’s getting better at recognizing when she’s disappearing from her own life.

Maybe I don’t need to finish becoming her.

Maybe I just need to keep showing up for her.

Because apparently choosing me wasn’t a finish line.

It’s something I have to keep doing.

And tomorrow?

I’ll probably have to choose me again.

Hopefully there’ll be a sticky note to remind me.