Goldilocks

There’s nothing quite like a good story, is there? Whether we’re bookworms or series-junkies, theatre fanatics or movie aficionados, most of us are getting our story fix somewhere. Don’t know what to make small talk about at a party? Ask someone what series they’re bingeing at the moment and you’re probably going to find common ground somewhere. We have book clubs where strangers become friends, based on our connection over stories. People make a living telling stories, whether from behind a camera, on stage, or by pouring their thoughts out onto paper. Whether it’s fiction or not, the ingredients of a good narrative stay the same – struggle, growth, and resolution. We search for satisfying stories in our religions and political choices. Stories are, I believe, what make us more than machines.  

I realise that I’m not making a ground-breaking statement. Most of us have heard, somewhere, about the importance of narratives in our lives. In fact, two of my favourite writers, Brenè Brown and Donald Miller, have done extensive research and work on the role the stories we tell ourselves plays in our personal and professional lives, teaching millions of people how to use narratives to improve their lives.

I used to dress one-handed as a child because I literally could not put down the book I was enthralled with. Not surprisingly, my mother didn’t always have the easiest time getting me in the car for school on time. Even as an adult, I always have my Kindle nearby, as I’m usually in the middle of reading at least two or three different books across different genres at any given time. Lately, I’ve revisited the stories I loved as a child, curious about which ones helped shape my world views. Did the steady stream of Disney stories make me a damsel in distress? Luckily not – all my Beauty and the Beast obsession did was make me want a library in my home. In addition to Belle and her princess crew, I had Nancy Drew, Hermione Granger and Jo March teaching me not to wait around for someone to save me. The heroines of my childhood were examples of bravery, wit and honesty. They worked hard and were kind, exemplifying characteristics I still strive to embody.

When it comes to the narrative I’ve been feeding off of, though, I’m slightly ashamed to admit that it’s most closely mirrored in Goldilocks. You know how she goes around from item to item in the bears’ home, judging everything? That’s what I’ve been doing to myself for as long as I can remember. I’ve been dissecting my appearance, my thoughts, and my emotions, trying to determine where they fall on the ridiculous scale of worthiness I had devised. I’ve been reducing my very being to fragments, totally dissociated from each other. The reason I so strongly identify with Goldilocks here is the word she uses when judging the bears’ belongings. She consistently describes their possessions by using the word “too”: too hot or too cold, too hard or too soft, until she gets to that Utopian “just right”. Now there are many people who might say that they fear not being “enough”, and I have also uttered that phrase in the past. I have to admit, though, that the story I have been telling myself, the one that reveals my deepest fear, is littered with that toxic little three-letter word.

Too.

“Ansunette, your emotions are too complicated. Your needs are too great. You are too intense. You are too much.”

So, I dialled it all down a notch – trying to make myself just right. Palatable. I did everything I could to be the low-maintenance friend, the girlfriend who was never needy, the employee who would do it all without asking any questions. I could fit in anywhere and with anyone because I wasn’t too much of anything. I saw my emotions as a burden. I believed that my ability to feel intensely was a defect. I buried my essence deep down, only allowing a select few people to truly see me.

Eventually, though, I had to re-evaluate this strategy. I thought back to what I love, what has shaped me. I have described hiking in rice paddies in SaPa as breath-taking, exhausting and enriching, not as “just right”. The greatest pain in my life, where I could feel my heart breaking in my chest, was not made of mild, middle-of-the-road stuff – but it was also my greatest lesson and the catalyst for incredible growth. I don’t love the people in my life because they are “palatable”. I love them for their quirks, for their innate human-ness. So why was I trying to reduce myself to being less than who I am? “Palatable” should be what I hope for from a dodgy garage pie, not from myself and certainly not from life. There is no shame in feeling deeply. In fact, I now see this for what it is: an incredible gift. This is what allows me to empathise with the people I come across. It is what makes me experience the beauty in music and art and words right down to my bones. It’s what drives me to follow dreams and change this world. I get to dive in, headfirst, into the human experience; and as I have become more comfortable with my own “too”-ness, I have seen that I’m not too much for the people that matter, anyway. None of us are.

I’ve made a vow to myself, something I tell myself every morning as I brush my teeth. I tell myself: “Ansunette, you are not just right. You are more than that – thank goodness! Today, I promise to keep this heart open and feel it all, even if it’s scary, so that you can be all you were meant to.”

Can you make that promise to yourself today, along with me? Are you willing to live a life of authenticity? It’s scary as hell, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: even a single day lived in the high definition you were made for, is immeasurably better than years of being just right.