What Exactly Are We Striving For?

There’s a story for every being. Every life that looks through its own set of eyes… sees one vital piece — their piece— of the world. And from there, they draw their conclusions. From the tiny corner lot in rural Kentucky to the tallest spire of a mansion in Italy. From the urban jungle of chain link and concrete, to the wild lands of the Amazon. Our eyes peer out of these little bodies and see our world… and at the same time, co-create it.

And all stories are necessary. All are valid. All are part of the fabric of consciousness. Each a tiny thread that weaves a part of the ever expanding story of the divine.

A story that wouldn’t be complete without yours.

Yes yours. The messy one that your conditioned mind tells you needs to be “better.” Isn’t quite “right.” Needs to be improved, adjusted, more successful, more organized— prettier.

I don’t know about you, but I am ready to retire this part of my mind. This mind ruled the striving part of my youth… and it’s time is up. This is the part that needed to prove. To win. To be seen a certain way other than how I am. That needed to be extra.

And it feels damn good to begin to turn the page on that chapter. That shit was exhausting.

The real me is good in her skin. Is at peace with how I just plain am. She knows my faults well and has found a way to love me with, despite, and even because of them.

It’s not that I always love what I see in the mirror or that I don’t make regular mistakes… it’s that time and experience (and lots of healing,) have allowed me to forgive my shortcomings and see the beauty in the imperfections.

And I’ve discovered that true beauty is imperfect. Not just that beauty itself is imperfect— but that beauty is the equivalent of imperfection. It’s the imperfection that makes us beautiful.

So, while in my youth, I was running around trying to fix everything “wrong” with me…. it’s not that my younger self would look at me now and think “wow, you did it! You fixed everything!” HA! Not at all.

My niece, Poppy teaching us all what embodied "enoughness" looks like. — My niece, Poppy, teaching us all what embodied "enoughness" looks like. I love her so…

I’m just fixing the most important thing.

How I see myself.

I’m no longer looking through the broken lens I’ve been handed from a broken world.

I’m not fixing the world. I’m not fixing myself. I’m fixing the lens.

And while looking through this new lens— one of love & compassion— I begin to understand that my pain always deserved compassion beyond all understanding. That my transgressions deserved the grace of endless forgiveness. That my heart was always worthy of love I didn’t have to earn. That I was worthy simply by being. That there was nothing “better” to strive “to become.” That I needed only to allow what was already there to be seen. To shine. To glow unhidden by guilt and shame.

That’s it.

For me, that’s the only game worth playing anymore.

Why try to be “better?” when who you are is enough and always was?

This frees up so much life force. Suddenly, one has access to these recesses of energy once bound up in striving striving striving to be other than who we are. Which in actuality, often means striving to erase the story that made us our beautifully imperfect selves… rather than owning and loving the crap out of our stories and integrating their ample gifts!

I bound so much of my energy up in needing to prove I was better. Maybe even the best. This came from a deep heartbreak in my early childhood— one in which I decided I wasn’t good enough to have what I wanted— and therefore set out to prove that I was.

This never stopped.

I kept trying to prove myself… to myself… that I was good enough… for decades.

Until that proving landed me at Planned Parenthood with irregular bleeding, severe anemia, and a fibroid.

But I digress…

It’s Monday. And instead of “hitting the ground running” and “owning the day” and “4-hour workweek-ing” and “bio-hacking” my nervous system into the most efficient achievement machine— which in the past, was like hooking my body up to a f*cking electrical socket of anxiety—I don’t do that shit. I’m done with that shit.

Instead, I will trust that I’m held. That I’m worthy of my needs being met. That I can trust my body to guide me when I love & honor it… instead of turning it into a machine that I rule over.

Instead, I will (mostly) sleep as long as my body needs to. I will take my time. I will make tea. I journal. Maybe meditate, move, pray, read, FEEL. And then… I will look at my week… and think about how I can best take care of myself through what’s coming. So that I get to feel good. Just as I am.

I know that this is a privileged existence. But why isn’t existence seen as a privilege? Why is it somehow more honorable to make sure life is a struggle? And why are we so quick to set up our lives in a way that squeezes every ounce of space… out of it? Why are we so compelled to fill every moment? To work jobs that take up so much time? To sign our children up for activities that turn us into chauffeurs and that squeeze out every last breath from our days? Why are we so apt to pack-pack-pack it in?