When Life Gives You Whiplash

Life is giving me whiplash lately.

Every time I think I have something figured out, I realize I’m completely wrong.

But, wait-am I?

I am more convinced than ever that there is so little that we actually know for sure. We spend our time arguing and convincing and then coming to a conclusion that this is what we believe and this is what we know and that is that.

People have this perception of each other that is shaped on so many things. Ways we have been treated in the past by others, our assumptions, pet peeves that cause us to dig in our feet and decide that what we believe is what is real and true.

Up until recently, I truly believed that WHO I am could stand up on its own. That if I just led my life trying to be the best person I could be and if I used kindness and gratitude that people who love me would believe that.

I listened to a podcast on my drive this weekend (I’m at a writing retreat a few hours away from home) about a woman, a real estate agent, who suddenly found a viral post about her online. In the post, someone claimed that she and her husband hired this woman to help them buy a home. She couldn’t go to a showing one day, so she sent her husband, but then ended up being able to make it at the last minute. When she got there, she found the realtor and her husband in a … let’s say, precarious position.

This was untrue, and the realtor began searching to figure out who would say this. Her business and reputation were ruined, and in the end it turned out that a total stranger had written a post on a website called “Homewrecker.” The reason? She had seen a comment that the realtor made on an online news article and assumed she was a racist, and decided she deserved to have her life ruined.

It turns out that the comment was sticking up for a teenager, saying we should show her some grace since she is a kid.

This = she is a neonazi, according to the woman who decided to tell a story about her being a home-wrecker.

The quote that got me in this podcast was that she said (I’m paraphrasing), “I always just thought if I was good, if I tried my best, that I would be ok.”


If I had to pick one thing in life that I feel I’m really good at (besides singing the theme song to the Fresh Prince of BelAir) it is getting to know people. I share my innermost thoughts and feelings and I admit things that I’m not proud of to show others that they’re not alone. I have a way of getting people to share things, and I love to learn about them. I truly LOVE human beings. I love their good and their bad.

With my friends, I share my worst traits. I share that sometimes my anxiety causes me to look like a giant grump or like I’m stuck up, when in reality, I panic and I just want to be alone. I share that I feel like I am never enough, that I can never be enough, that no matter what I do, I fall short. I fail. I share that when someone yells or snaps at me, I cry. I can’t help it (definitely more therapy on the way, don’t worry) and it’s just ingrained in me. It’s part of who I am. For now.

The other day I said to my husband, “I know my heart. Why doesn’t anybody else?”

And I guess that’s because it’s my job to know me. It’s my job to stay confident in the fact that I don’t hurt people on purpose. I have to stay strong in the knowledge that I am doing my best, setting goals to become a better person, to learn and to change, and to grow. It’s my job to let that shit go.

I. Am. Enough.

This is what I will whisper to myself, 20 times a day if I have to.


I believe this, and that has to be the only thing that matters. Oh, and hey–you are enough, too.






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