Sometimes I’m such a little girl. It’s a sad confession I make to you. I’m a twenty-nine year old woman who successfully (somehow) maneuvered her way through college and graduate school into (mostly) gainful employment, who moved herself from a small town surrounded by corn and soybean to a city of 2 million, who survived family and relationship dysfunction in all its varied forms, and I’m still brought to my knees by insecurity.

I may think I know who I am today, but I don’t feel like that’s enough for me anymore. I want to be so much more than…this…this version of me. It sneaks up on me and hits me right between the eyes. BAM! And it goes on to eat away at my better judgment, bringing hot disappointing tears.  Please don’t misunderstand, it’s not about “the having”- the material things, the job, the spouse, or the family. It’s about being the kind of person I admire from afar. My self-effacing jokes belie envy.

The ones I admire: they’re dark haired and quirky, eccentric and endearing. They’re creative and inspire creativity: know things about art and music and all its many forms. They photograph and take photographs well. They flit and float about town on their vintage scooters and bikes with their vintage skirts with vintage patterns and their vintage glasses and ballerina flats. They’re beautiful in ephemeral ways that spawn more beauty. They’re just left of center, original, authentic.

And all the while, I’m…me. Neither terrible nor extraordinary, but somewhere in between. Adequate maybe.