I Ran Through Town Without A Shirt

Did I get your attention with the title of this post?  I thought it was funny, but the subject matter is not.  This is one of the more personal posts I have written and I admit to writing it multiple times over the past few years, to varying degrees, but didn’t post it because it makes me vulnerable.  And if you commit to reading the following, you will see why that would stall my posting.  Though if you know me, and if you have read my blog for any amount of time, you are probably aware of some of this or know the following about me, so maybe it isn’t news to you.

For most of my life, I have been incredibly self-conscious.

When I was younger, it was almost crippling.  I was so afraid of making a fool of myself that I actively avoided participating in everything from conversations to PE class.  I even avoided being helpful because I was afraid of failure, going so far as to avoid helping pick up or do dishes at others houses because I was afraid I would break a glass or wash a dish incorrectly.  Unfortunately, a few of the times I was required to participate I did in fact make a fool of myself, reinforcing the already damaging things I thought about myself. 

I have always been self-critical and aware of my own failings.  I have always wanted to be aware of them, so I could try to overcome them.  I admit, however, that I am often overly critical and not at all forgiving of my own shortcomings.  Especially when I was younger, I could find fault in every aspect of myself; my looks, the way I dressed, my intelligence, my talents (or lack of talents), my faith (or lack of faith).  Everything.  Even when I did prove myself and excel in something, I would find fault in it and downplay it.  Even after being accepted into honor bands in high school I still thought I wasn’t a great clarinet player. 

I did my best to hide this self-talk by doing things that would suggest I didn’t really care about what others thought, or more importantly, trying to convince myself I didn’t really think I was that horrible.  When I was required to climb the rope in front of the entire class in elementary PE, I laughed louder than all the other kids while I held on helplessly to the rope, my feet only inches off the ground, unable to pull myself up and not understanding how to properly wrap my foot in the rope.  In middle school, I wore bright, neon green pants in part because I loved them but also in hopes that people would see the pants and not notice my acne or other things I was insecure about.  For the first few years of being a musician I avoided auditioning for honor bands because I assumed that I was “okay” at clarinet but not honor band material.

Like many things, as I grew older some of the shyness wore off, as did the care about what others thought, but the negative things I have to say about myself still come up to this day.  I have really high expectations of myself and a low tolerance for not meeting these expectations. 

Why have I struggled with this?  I could blame my parents, who supported me in a thousand different ways, though rarely used verbal affirmation (Mom if you read this—you supported me in ways much better than telling me I was pretty and you know it, so please don’t worry!).  I could blame the strict church I attended as a child, often being told of how much of a horrible, terrible sinner I was.  I could blame the kids in my class who laughed at me, the social construct of popularity in schools that placed me in the lower ranks from the start.  Or maybe blame the media, etc., for making me believe  I need to be thinner, prettier, smarter, better.
I admit these things may have made an impact and maybe together created a super, hyper-critical monster that I fought with growing up.  The truth is, though, that I was raised in a caring and supportive environment at home, with parents providing me with instruments, driving me to lessons, attending every concert. My church taught about sin because without understanding it we couldn’t understand the need for the amazing news of the gospel, something they also taught.  And the kids in school were just kids, trying to figure themselves out, too.

It has always been my choice what I say to myself.  And while I think it’s good to know when I’m failing so that I can work to improve and knowing my sin reminds me just how much I need grace, I also know that choosing to think of myself as a failure is damaging not only to my life but to the lives around me.  I am constantly working to be in a place where I am confident enough in the person God created me to be that I just don’t think about myself much at all and simply live every day doing the best that I can to be His, to serve others and to be in the moment.

Today, I ran through town without my shirt on (don’t worry, I was covered.  Even if I felt and looked like a model, there is such a thing as decency.  And sports bras.).  I am not at my thinnest or most fit, so I am sure there was more jiggle than this fitness and health nut would care to admit, but I did it.    I was 6 miles into an 11 mile run, the sun was hot and the wind at my back.  Normally, I would have kept the shirt on because even though I run 40 miles a week and have a very consistent healthy diet and weight training routine on top of that, I often don’t feel very fit and imagine that I’m just not quite thin or fit enough to justify having my shirt off while working out in public.  Today, however, I chose to look past any imperfections and realize that I work hard for a healthy body and there are times when it’s appropriate (like hot long runs) to not worry so much about my appearance and instead enjoy the wind cooling off my mid drift and enjoy the sun on my skin.  And if I’m being honest, to be okay with catching a glimpse of myself in a reflection on a clean car and being pleasantly surprised to see my abs showing as I made my way down the street (and to be okay with kind of bragging about it here.)

To make a point (to myself more than anyone) here I am this morning after my long run, with my adorable dog in the background.

So what is the point of this very long, very personal post?  There are many.  To thank those who encourage me who might not know that their words can have a huge impact on my view of myself (a special shout out to the man of my house, who hasn’t skipped a day of telling me something good about myself since we first started dating over 15 years ago). Also to encourage those of you who have read this far.  To encourage you to lift others up, to point out the things that make them awesome as often as you can. To encourage you to refrain from superficial judgment of things not your concern—to look for the good instead of the bad (to think ‘good for her’ when you see a girl running down the street instead of judging how she looks like while doing it, for example). To encourage you that you have talents and worth and beauty and things that make you amazing.  To remind you, and myself, that I have good traits, but when I fail (because we all do) God’s grace is sufficient.