I didn't write a "bestseller,"
but I did write three books.
I'm not "the best mom in the world,"
but I am a mom who tries damn hard and loves her kids dearly.
I'm not a "trophy wife,"
unless they are giving away trophies for being an un-hot mess and keeping your home space looking just the same.
I'm not the best at being a gal's gal,
but I'm the gal that'll be there for you in times of trouble.
I'm not the most graceful, and I lack couth,
and, in fact, I'm just as unpolished as the furniture I own.
I can't cook worth a lick,
but I'll lick peanut butter off a spoon, straight out of the jar, till the cows come home.
I don't own an iron,
but the love I have for my husband and kids sure is ironclad.
Nothing about me is even close to perfect,
but when I look around, perfect people are all I see.
The naturally and undeniably beautiful ones.
The owning-every-bit-of-who-they-are, successful ones.
The visibly, selflessly hardworking ones.
The balanced, positive-energy-emitting ones.
And then there's me...
The anxious one.
The one with too many thoughts in her brain and not enough people to share them with, so she takes to the internet and makes it her diary.
The one who needs admittedly needs therapy.
The one her friends say would make a terrific therapist.
You know, I used to feel insecure about my flaws.
Because, at times, they're pretty obvious.
But now, at 35, what's evident to me is that nobody's "got it all," and that all anyone already is, is all that they ever need to be.
“Stop looking around and comparing yourself to others,” I’m telling you and myself.
Because the only thing any of us needs to compare is the amount of love and respect we gave ourselves yesterday, to how much we're offering up today, and making sure that it's more.