I’m an addition-by-subtraction kinda girl.
Blame it on my Moon in Scorpio or the ruthless minimalist in my head that believes the shortest route to peace of mind is through the obstacles blocking it, but I am far better at cutting out what I don’t want than identifying what I do want.
My imagination is pretty limited; creating a “vision” isn’t my jam. My visceral gut reactions to the intolerable, though? Never steer me wrong.
So I realized recently that I’ve been approaching this pressing, niggling, obsessive question of “Who Am I?” from the wrong perspective. It’s not about embracing some improved shiny version of myself that’s never existed.
It’s about eliminating the road block to what’s already at my core.
And that road block is shame.
It’s made me small. It’s made me try and fail—repeatedly—to fit myself into easy-to-consume archetypes that make me make sense to the world.
To find a mold to fill.
Like I’ve ever needed a fucking mold.
So I take these layers…
“Don’t say that.”
“You can’t do that.”
“You sound bitter.”
“You sound lonely.”
“That looks boring.”
“You’re too old.”
“That’s not appropriate.”
“Ew. People can’t know you like that.”
I set them ablaze and dance in the flames.