I Write a Farewell Letter to my Insecurity…

Dear Low Self-Esteem, Inner Critic, Insecurity, and Judgment:

Hi, old friends. It’s been a while since I addressed you directly, and I felt it was time we had a chat.

See, I’m 39 years old now. In less than four months, I turn 40. I know, it’s hard for me to believe, too. In my heart, sometimes, I still feel like I’m in high school. Back then my insecurity manifested as a badge of honor. I took my perceived separateness and pinned it to the sleeve of my black tee-shirt and wore it with goth/emo pride. I took myself very seriously because I feared no one else ever would.

I know that you initially showed up in my life to protect me. Like when I was seven years old, playing Mary in the church Christmas pageant, and everyone laughed when I suddenly appeared from off-stage with a baby doll in my arms. The moms in the audience chuckled at my instantaneous birth experience. It was innocent, their laughter, but you whispered into my ear:

They think you’re a joke. Get offstage. Don’t ever try something like this again. 

So I adopted shyness as my modus operandi. I tucked my head down and tried to be invisible. I read books and played with my model horses and had a few close friends. At home I could be myself, but out in the world… well, I remembered that laughter.

And then I went to high school and joined the newspaper staff. I started writing and found out I was actually good at it. Talent. I liked that I could express my many opinions in writing rather than by speaking up with my voice. Our advisor gave me bigger and bigger stories and talked about making me editor my senior year. But you whispered:

Don’t get too big for your britches. Sure, you can write OK, but editor? It’s not like anyone would listen to you…

But then I became editor and my staff listened. Our newspaper won an award. And I went off to college knowing I was good at something real.

When I started to believe in myself, you found another tactic: judgment. As my ego grew stronger, so did my internal critic. You encouraged me to turn the laughter on others, even if it was only in my own mind. You struck again and again where you saw imperfection, all the while tricking me to into believing that it wasn’t my own imperfection I criticized. The trick was a clever one, and it worked for a long time. I could feel superior this way, through judgment. Eventually, the lens always turned itself back onto me, though. And my fragile ego would crumble and I would find an excuse to fall apart.

In the silence that followed the sadness I began to hear my true Self. The Me connected not to ego, but to the Divine. You would quickly rush in to push me back toward ego. But the Self persisted and over time I began to recognize your lies:

You need a man to have worth, a husband and a family. Lie.

You’re not smart enough to get a doctorate. Lie.

You can’t drive across country alone. It’s dangerous. Lie. 

You have nothing of importance to say. Lie.

No one will read your blog. Lie.

If you quit your job, how will you survive? You can’t make it on your own. Lie. 

And the whole time you were lying, you would stroke my hair like a lover and talk to me in that soft voice of yours and assure me that if I just trusted you, I’d be safe. I’d be secure. No one could hurt me. And it was all a lie.

I want to thank you, all of you, for your effort to keep me safe. I admire your dedication, I do. And I’m grateful, because you helped me survive adolescence.

But I’m a grown up now. I’m strong, not because of my fear or your protection, but because of my own courage and trust in myself. And I’ve fallen helplessly in love in life. I think the time has come for us to part ways. I don’t want to carry this relationship with me into the next decade of my life. I need to let you go.

I know you’ll still show up. You’ll write letters and call me. Sometimes I might even open the envelope or answer the phone. But you can’t control me like you used to. I stand firmly on solid ground, secure with my Self who has only my highest good as her goal.

I have much work to do in this lifetime. There is a call that is specifically mine and unique only to me. I must let you go in order to fulfill my promise. So with love, I release you into the ether, to reclaim my inheritance, and to give our wounded world everything I’ve got.

With love,

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