Journal?

Today while we were cleaning up a little (you know, pre-semester preparations), I found some of my old journals from Junior High, High School and my first year of College. It was such a funny thing to sit and slowly turn pages, drinking in the words from someone who almost felt like a different person to me. Though much was strange and foreign to me within the pages, she still held familiar pieces in her and as I read, I could remember being this little girl, all full of hopes and dreams and love and hurt.

I read about the friends she was making at school--the unexpected ones, the hoped-for-but-never-achieved ones, the failed ones, the favorite ones--and I read about the boys she dreamed about under her breath--the bad ones she knew she shouldn't love but did anyway, the ones that everybody told her to love, the ones that she couldn't help loving even if she tried, and the ones that broke her heart. I read about her broken heart many times, smiling a little to myself at the innocence of her heart. I read about the things that really troubled her; I read about her real sorrows and troubles, the things that shamed her, the things that made her feel worthless. I read about her deepest wishes (to have her first kiss, to speak up for herself just once, to overcome her greatest struggles) and rejoiced to see her achieve some of them (the first kiss hadn't been what she expected, but the last first one more than made up for it, she slowly found her voice, and she worked so hard I felt tiny threads of pride in her).

What did I learn? I was surprised to find that I loved this girl, and I was surprised to feel how much I loved her. It was almost funny to see her as me. But I realized that I am not a bad person. I am not worthless. My thoughts are not silly. My struggles are not trivial. I mean something. Especially to my Heavenly Father. He was there for me in a lot of those pages when I didn't deserve him. He was patient with me when I moaned over my own stupid mistakes. But no matter how many times I cried to him, he was still there the next time I needed him.

For me, life has been a constant process of learning and becoming myself. Part of becoming myself has been to learn to love everything that I am. No, it doesn't mean accepting the parts of me that do terrible things that I know I shouldn't. But it does mean loving myself in spite of those parts of me. I am a reasonably nice person. I think I have a nice smile. I have pretty eyes. My hair is crazy and I wouldn't have it any other way. I feel deeply for other people and make friends quickly. I give good advice (sometimes) even though I can't keep my own  life together most of the time. I am good with babies and children (most of the time, but come on, who doesn't find it difficult sometimes?). I can cook, even if it takes me twice the recommended time on the recipe. I can write if I try, and I'm smart when I put my mind to it, even if I don't usually prefer to put my mind to it.

The point of this is that no matter what happens in my life, that my spirit is mine and I am me. I used to believe that silence was the best policy. Why defend myself and cause a fight if I could stay silent and keep all my hurt inside? I don't believe that anymore. I try not to be defensive, but I believe that standing up for myself, giving myself a voice and a light in the midst of all the confusion and darkness in this world is something desperately important to do. I still believe that forgiveness is the most important thing in the world, especially in forming and maintaining relationships, though I understand the why and how a little bit better now. I still dream of soft baby cuddles and tiny feet and hands, just like I did when my mom held her own little babies and cuddled their round bellies and kissed their cheeks. I used to hate my hair, consider it the enemy of everything I ever wanted to be. Now I pretty much just go with it. Taming it in any major way is for special occasions. I've even learned to appreciate it.

I can't ever be someone else, so why would I ever waste time wishing I was and complaining about who I am?