My daughter was walking around the house, singing lightly to herself.
"I'm so proud of myself, I'm so proud of myself......!"
The cause for pride? She had figured out how to braid her doll's long hair.
Luciya, like many children, always had a natural and unabashed view of herself and was still able, at 9 years old, to feel free and happy in her self-expression. Her "motivational posters," as I called them, turned up all over the house.
Around the time of the Happy Hair Braiding Song, I discovered an acrostic poem she'd made using the letters of her name:
And there came one of those wondering moments, where childhood suddenly seems at once so far away and at the same time so deliciously appealing.
Those of us who enjoy the arts will write to sooth our upturned souls or meander through our journals and sketch pads with thoughts of ache, or deep empathy, or the power of discovering ease and joy.
But it's rare that we'll sit down in simplicity with the singular thought of "I'm awesome."
So, I tasked myself with homework inspired by the genuine beingness of a child, and I made my own acrostic poem.
The trick here is to let go of both humility and ego. It's okay to claim badassery, or wonderfulness, or honest truths that aren't all "aw, shucks"-y. The other trick is to not over-think it. Just flow.
I’m So Effing Proud of Myself
The other day, A friend posted to Facebook that she had made butter, for the first time ever. “I just shook cream in a jar!” This is a full on adult woman, and this act made her feel jubilation - and proud. It made me smile. Another friend recently graduated with her Masters Degree in Business Administration at the age of 40. We celebrated her. She was so effing proud of herself, and so were her friends and entire family. There were mariachi bands and her parents were beaming.
I’d been wanting to write a post about the act of feeling proud for some time now. For the little things, the enormous things. The fluttery brave tiptoes, as well as the times we rocket straight off the high cliffs of uncertainty.
My daughter and I set off for a week in Utah, where she was attending a camp at the National Ability Center. I was primed to work hard from our hotel room: writing, organizing, recording, responding. My car was roadtrip ready the day of our departure: three coolers of food, two suitcases, extras of all the traveler’s necessities. I only forgot one thing. One bag. The bag that contained a few things: my laptop. All the chargers. All her medications and vitamins. Her hearing aids. My microphone. Our books. Basically, the Bag of Very Important Things. And I’d left it 300 miles away.
I was not proud of myself. I was chagrined.
But I knew I could be proud of myself.
I made it work: pharmacies and phone calls; Google maps and lobby brunch… and I did it. I pulled some things together, enough to stay connected and keep my girl’s thyroid in check . I was really proud of myself. The week went by just fine. Not flawlessly, not by a long stretch. But I set my sights on the possibility of … possibility. Of the reminder that things can work out. Was it perfect? Nope. Did it work out? Yep.
I chose to be proud of myself instead of ashamed or embarassed. I chose to channel my inner Tim Gunn: “Make it work.”
I’m so effing proud of myself.
Today I choose to see the good. Today I welcome the possibility for ease and the knowledge that things can work out. Today I’m going to find one thing that I’m so proud of. I can do that. And I can accept the next big beautiful thing. Proudly.
Since June was Pride Month, I wanted to make this post at that time (I didn’t; it took awhile to get my sh*t together), with the additional, fervent shoutout of allyship to the LGBTQIA+ communities and the rightful cause for recognition and calls for understanding, respect, freedom, and inclusion. 🏳️🌈 Let pride reign.
I'm So F***ing Proud of Myself