“I wish I could shower without my thoughts,” I said to Sean absentmindedly as I towel dried my hair. I’d been doing battle with people who haven’t listened, replaying conversations that are already inked and smudged beyond repair. He looked at me and took a deep breath, I felt my shoulders go up in defensive anticipation and then back down.
“Me too,” he said and smiled gently. “Hard to turn it all off sometimes.”
It felt pretty good to not be judged, but my mind immediately set itself back to judging—flitting from why I chirp “yup” during conference calls to the clothes hanging in the closet, to the roller coaster of 40something skin (Is it a break out? Is it flaking dry skin? Is it both? Why do I itch everywhere?) to how I haven’t been writing and when I do write it drops silently into the abyss. I tried resetting my shoulders again.
It’s maddening to me that I can walk down the street with confidence, a few instances notwithstanding, and feel unbothered by appearance or doubt. Yet when I’m at home I thrash against quicksand like doubt and judgement. The face I might have cracked a smile at in a storefront reflection is now haggard, the idea I had for a project is full of holes that I tear wider with contempt. The doubt is caricature-like in its relentlessness.
The thing about doubt for me is that it doesn’t matter how tightly scheduled my day is, I fit it in. It also comes upon in me ways that are unpredictable-good night’s sleep, bad night’s sleep, easy day, hard day. The other day I said something about it online and Bette, a woman who I’ve been friends with online almost as long as I’ve been a mom said, “You’re getting better at this, right?”
I want to say yes. I want to say that I hit 40 and let it all go, or that I realized it was a waste of time, which I have, but it’s still here. I am still here. Ever questing for est—
smartest
strongest
prettiest
thinnest
funnest
You name it, alone with my thoughts I tend to think that I don’t measure up. I look at the things other people do, see their 13.1 or 26.2 stickers. I have no desire to run that far, I just don’t. That doesn’t stop me from thinking that I am somehow failing by not training for a half marathon. Same goes for seasonal wreaths and centerpieces. I don’t want them, but not creating them or buying them is something I curse myself for.
Seeing all this written out, imagining hearing it from someone else, I can easily rally a “you shouldn’t feel that way and here are 15 reasons why…” for them, not for me. Laying this out here with the cursor blinking at me to write more is excruciating. How much more can I tell? How bare can I lay the doubt and self-ridicule? I could choose not to do this and have the stories I leave be free of this. I could erase this part of my voice and deny that I wavered or faltered. As much as I want to be free of these echoes, I want my daughters to know that it’s ok to worry. We aren’t broken.

I promised myself I’d do this. I prefer the days when my joy at being alive trumps everything else, when each challenge that pops up is met with a a reflex of I can do this. Because I can, I do know that beneath my shallow lamenting that I am not as effective as so and so at something I am remarkable. We all are, but when held against the remarkableness of others we are destined to fall short.
As I went about this emotional, mind stammering I found something from Gretchen Rubin. It was a tweet that came up in my feed at just the right moment, erasing for a moment the pursuit of est.

I’ve been writing these posts about self-doubt and body image for years. I’m tired of it. I’d like to think that it’s possible to get to a point where certain things aren’t a part of us, that we can conquer vices. Maybe if I embrace what Gretchen writes, aim for one or the other depending on the day, I can hold on a bit longer to the days when my reflection, my shadow, and the sound of my own voice are things that I cherish.
Yesterday Sean helped me get out of my own head by shooing me out of the house for a walk. Just agreeing to do it felt like climbing a mountain, but I did it. I was about 50 steps from the house when I realized that it was all I needed, a perfect reset. Now if I can just hold on to that and the perspective that can be found from stepping out of the self-critiquing rut, I’ll be just fine.

Tagged: acceptance, body, Confidence, life
You are the YOU-est. That’s really the only -est that matters.
Does that sound cheesy? I know it does. My inner voice tells me it sounds cheesy.
But I still mean it. I really like you and your words and the slice of yourself that you share here. I’m very happy that YOU exist.
Shannon, I’ll never stop being grateful for the time that we had to talk in person. I’ve said it before, but I always read your comments with your particular lilt. Thank you for being such a continual source of cheer. I also admire your incredible offspring 😉
Isn’t it remarkable that the people with the greatest gifts often harbor the greatest self-doubt? If only you could eternally internalize the way the world sees you. Of course you can’t. We’re hardest on ourselves. But if you ever need a lift, feel free to holler, and I’ll holler right back—one of many voices out there singing your praises.
I’ll hold you to that offer 😉
I loved the bravery it took to post this … and I also love that quote – expect and demand more from yourself. There is this weird space between not giving a damn and pushing for more. That sweet spot sometimes feels unattainable!
Thank you, Naomi. Commencing the quest toward that sweet spot.
Thanks for sharing what, I think, is common among a lot of us. I get this on so many levels. In fact, I giggled a bit when I saw the half-marathon bit because I’m living with someone who IS training for a half. Of course (OF COURSE!) I am proud of him, but…*I* was “the runner” of the two of us when we met 20 years ago (also when I was at my leanest, least amount of grey…you get the picture), and so I feel that sense of failure you talk about because I don’t want to run a half, and I can barely muster the desire to even do 3 miles anymore. It’s hard not to let the doubt and sense of failure creep in, isn’t it? But as my 7 year old just beamed yesterday while playing soccer in the yard with her dad (and I use that term loosely, given her inherited directly from me lack of coordination), “It’s hard, mama, but I’m out there trying my hardest!” Wise words, no? Harder to implement though (at least for me). Hang in there — you really are the “est” of so much!
Phew! Thanks for snickering at the running thing. I think people are so admirable, I wish it were easier to separate so that their awesome didn’t feel like such a lack of it on my part.
I’ve been stretched really thin lately…and in a spare moment I was making a quick run to the grocery store to get the 10,000 items I needed for company coming the next day. Every second of the day was accounted for and I hadn’t had one to shower or even put make-up on. I caught my awesomely wind (read life) blown reflection as I was getting into the driver’s seat. It was one of those times where it took me a second to fully comprehend that it was my reflection. As I attempted to correct the mess in the review mirror this vision of put-together-perfection walks past my peripheral and out loud (to no one but myself) I said “F@#K you lady!” I got a good laugh at how silly I was being and I squeezed in a shower when I got home!
No comment on things I may or may not have said to runners as I have driven passed them…while eating a donut… wha? No. Never happened. 😛
Best comment. Thank you Kristy!
This made me burst into tears, friend. All day today, I have been battling with these exact ruminations. I can’t do what I thought I could do. I’ve lost the “touch” I’m not extraordinary and I need to just be that. But, then a small part of me strikes back and says “fight! fight for what you know you have inside! NO ONE is stagnant!” and then I start up again. But, this, just this, all day long. THANK YOU for providing me with balm to the isolation I’ve been pushing down today. xoxoxo
That I have given you something of comfort is more precious than you’ll ever know. Thank you, friend, for coming here, for listening and for feeling. xo You are so very extraordinary!
you are a delicious girl, fantastic writer, kind spirit, loving Mama and a doll around. I like you just the way you are (kudos to Bruno Mars and Bill Joel for their song lyrics!)
Trish
Thank *you* for getting two of my favorite songs banging around in my head 😉
See? I knew there was a reason I visited your site today, right now, when I should be putting my boys down for a nap. Oh, Amanda, you have no idea how your words echo my thoughts of late. You are so not alone. Thank you for giving voice to the self-doubt as only you can: beautifully, eloquently and perfectly. And just so you know, you’re one of the writers who prompt me to think, “I’ll never be that good.” I simply adore your words.
I am so glad that you came. I always tremble after sending these posts out into the world. Don’t ever say you’ll never be that good, the only never is that you might never understand how good you really are. Hugs into the weekend, sweet mama.