Eating That Elephant

Today I was reading a blog written by a local woman that I remembered meeting a few months ago. At the time, I remember thinking she was interesting and that I would like to get to know her, but of course without an actual working memory, I never followed through. Reading her stories, I felt curiously drawn to her.

Similarities to myself that I saw within her words touched me in ways I can’t quite describe. Her wry sense of humor despite a painful situation, her mostly-philosophical approach made more realistic with a bit of anger and lots of grief, and her willingness to expose emotions to the world– I greatly admire someone whose words have the power to make me feel as if we are old friends sitting in her living room. I admired her ability to describe the details amongst a flood of heavy situations, to add bits of playfulness into the seriousness – in short, to make me feel.

My first reaction was a connectedness of emotion (combined with a bit of envy at the quality of her writing). Despite very different circumstances, a mother’s love, pain, and transformation is universal, and I wanted to reach out and connect.

Right on the heels of that though, was another reaction, though some might consider it odd: fear and self-doubt. I thought to myself, maybe it would be rather odd (or to be honest, what I mean is that she might think it rather odd) to try to be friends with someone that I’ve only met once. Perhaps contacting her with a renumeration of all the similarities between us would feel just a tad bit too stalking? I briefly considered listing some qualifications to be her friend – after all, I’m not entirely unconnected or unknown in the parenting community – but quickly decided that would sound desperate at best and self-important at worst.

Then I realized, if I – an extrovert who makes friends fairly easily – am having these doubts, how must it be for others? How selfish am I being, worrying about this?

My own feelings began to make me consider the nature of friendships and connection, of women and self-doubt. Why are we always questioning ourselves? Why do we always think we are not good enough? Recently I was watching a show where women unhappy with their bodies were asked to place themselves in a line-up, based on how big they thought they were compared to other women. They consistently put themselves at the large end of the line, instead of at the smaller end where they actually belonged. I see this again and again in real life – people that I’m sure are more fit than I tell me how wonderful I look, and then go on to berate themselves. On the flip side, I, instead of taking their compliments to heart, feel an inner dismissiveness and downplay their remarks, taking anything negative much more to heart.

This happens not just in relation to body image and looks, but across the board with women, and I find it sad at the same time I’m victim to it.

But, will this realization be enough to get me past my self-consciousness and brave enough to send a simple email? I’m still not sure.