The stories we tell ourselves

By Rachel Clifton

How do we live bravely?
We let ourselves fail.
We’re going to fail anyway.
So why not fail better?

I’m being facetious, and deliberately so. 
Let’s be real. 
Modern life is — or can be — exhausting.
But what’s most exhausting of all isn’t the day-to-day.
It’s pretending. It’s performing. It’s putting on a brave face.
It’s not being able to be who and what you are, at that moment.
It's always having to be on guard.
So guarded that you're afraid to ask what you're afraid of.
You just know that you're scared.
The aim?
Just be with whatever is.
Flawed. 
Imperfect.
Wandering.

Rachel Clifton

I’m 23 and guttural, but age doesn’t matter.
And there’s something about femininity and womanhood here too, I think. 
Notions of who we are (and aren’t) allowed to be.
Notions of who we allow ourselves to be.
The public, the private -- and, of course, our dreams. 
My dreams may not be your dreams.
My fears may not be your fears.
That doesn’t matter.
Still, we are more similar than we are different.
We need to slow down and be still.
Only then can we see clearly.
Only then can we hear what's really going on.

When you’re rushing, you’re not present.
And when you’re not present, you’re not really there.
You’re not really there for anything or anyone -- least of all yourself.
We all deserve more than that, from ourselves as well as others.
But it starts with accountability. The [wo]man in the mirror.

You see, it's not heroic to take on more than you can chew.
To try to save the world. To devote yourself to goodness.
Or rather, it’s not heroic to do so in isolation. 
To push and push and pull, and negate your humanity.
When I hear people say this, I ask, “why?”
And in my head, I think, "what are you running away from?"
I used to think like this, be like this, live like this.
If nothing else, I endeavor to practice what I preach.
But now, dare I say it, I understand.
If I’m anyone’s hero, I am simply my own.

What I do and who I become is not — and will not become — the focal point of my life.
I want to live first. Full stop, no buts, no doubts. No second-guessing. My impact, and any notions of a 'legacy' are implicitly secondary.
And pride comes before a fall, no doubt.
I am sure that I will be tested. 
I am sure that I will crumble.
And I am equally sure that I will get up again.
All flesh is weak. We are but adult children. 
I am fickle and wretched and stubborn.
So, I will remember. 
What we really need to do is forgive. 

We do not live in a vacuum.
Therefore, notions of 'I' can't be distinguished from 'we.’ 
I am but a conduit.
A reminder.
To you and to myself.
I am my own sanctity. My own home. My own anchor.
We all are… it’s just that, for many of us, we’re far away from home.
We don’t know what home looks like.
We don’t know what it’s like to be at home in our own skin.

I wrote this on the fly, furiously.
Fingers tap-tapping across the page.
Call it poetry, journaling, or something else -- I don’t care.
Make it up. When I share it with you, it is no longer ‘mine.’
But it was never mine to start with. 
This is soul.

And this is what stories do.
They connect us with our souls.
They stir up something deep and dark within us, and they allow us to feel.
Feelings are powerful.
They are our lifeblood.
They are what will bring us home.
When was the last time that you listened to yourself?
When was the last time that you felt alive?
I’d wager a guess that the answers are entwined.
But hey - I may be wrong.
I’m no oracle.
And that’s the beauty of this, too.

I am, we come, full circle.
Whether this resonates with you or not is not the point.
It is something that I have created. It exists on its own merit.
It doesn’t have to please.
Or simper.
Or be liked.
Or any combination thereof.
It can stand tall.
It can be despised.
It can be ignored.
It can be devalued.
And it still exists.
It is still allowed to exist.
It does not have to be perfect.
It doesn’t have to be anything.
It just is.

This is how I want to live — freely.
Without fear.
This is what it means for me to be truthful.
And this is what it requires, I think. 
A degree of detachment from outcomes. 
In some sense, ‘not caring’.
Because if I care too much, I spiral into focusing on something beyond myself -- something that I have no control of.
And I start wanting to control it.
And, for me at least, that is always futile.

We are born, we live, and we die -- and at some level, that’s all there is.
At some level, my life is — our lives are — intrinsically insignificant. 
And what a blessing.

To laugh, to cry, to withstand it all.
And to know that, at the end of the day, it is all but a story.
We are but stories.
What stories are you telling yourself?
What stories do you stand for?