It’s me. It was always me.

That hole that I felt in my gut? That fear that bubbles at the sight of imperfection? Only I can fill that. It’s only me. It’s always been me.

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I went through a lot of stages. Progress never felt like a complete picture of who I was or where I was going. Even now I don’t have all the pieces. But that doesn’t matter. Because now I know where I’m going. And I know I can get there.

Freshman year Domus taught me that I’m capable of so much more than I give myself credit for. That what kept me from my dreams was simply the thought that they could come true. And that I would deserve the result. That I deserve happiness. And that terrified me.

It’s funny. I’ve always had teachers or random aunties tell me how “amazing!” Or “talented” or how “will achieve great things” I am. But those words only felt heavy and undeserved. Because I knew I could be doing more and that my success was not the exception. It was the expectation. Dreaming was not an option. Failure, always a crime. And so I would giggle uncomfortably at well intended compliments and cringe at how far they were from being true, all the while confident that this was how the whole world operated.

It’s not that I thought I was bad at things. I was fully aware that I was good at school and was an above average singer relative to my conception of the “average” person whatever that means. Rather, I felt a sense of dread that I would once again have to one up myself to prove that I was still worthy of that praise. That I still deserved to be looked at like I was worth something in the world’s eyes. Because there’s no rest for the perfect. There’s no room for mistakes and explanations were only excuses.

So that was me. For a very long time. I’m still that me, from time to time, in certain places, around certain people.

But Domus showed me that I was wrong. I did something that I didn’t think would turn out well. I made enemies. I failed in so many ways, even though the event was widely praised. And that felt good. A part of me felt like I finally got what was coming to me. But I don’t think that’s quite the way I frame it in my head now. I simply got the recognition that I was craving. I wanted people to see me fail and still see me as a fully functioning person worthy of respect. Because maybe if they saw it, I could too?

There’s a kind of endless cycle to self-acceptance. Someone else telling me that I’m pretty won’t make me automatically believe it, but it does give me an opportunity to stop and think. I have options. Either 1) they’re lying and I’m not pretty or 2) they’re telling the truth. What I realized was that if I chose the latter and allow myself to trust the judgement of others. I could momentarily bring myself out of the path dependent cycle of self-sabotage and consider for a moment that I can be wrong. It sounds so simple to me now. Of course I can be wrong. Why would I always be right. No one is always right. I know that. Everyone knows that. But by only believing what I wanted to believe, by cherry picking the self-confirming thoughts in every situation, I was refusing to believe that I could be wrong about myself. I was refusing to accept that I was pretty. And for me, that was the first step.

Failure was a similar kind of disruption to my negative patterns. It asked me to stop and consider, for a second, why I felt uncomfortable. And the more I learn to assume best intention from Failure, the better I get at taking risks without feeling attacked by the consequences. Without judging myself before anyone else can judge me.