As a kid and adolescent I was a pathological liar. I would lie about everything. And it was stupid. I see it now, but at the time, it was the only way I could get/do/be what I wanted.
As I grew, I realized it wasn’t the way to go. Trying to remember what I told to whom became so daunting that I decided it was time to change.
Now, I tell the truth. To a fault. I am honest, bare, and an oversharer. It’s a trait I hope my kids pick up, rather than the lying one I know is in their blood.
The truth is, I feel like a faker. A big, fat faker. In everything. In this blog, I feel like I’m just pretending to be a writer, as amateur as I am. In my home, I feel like I’m pretending to be this motherhood figure, despite having 7+ years of experience now. With my husband, it feels like I’m pretending to be this woman who has it all together. When I meet new people, I feel like I’m faking being me by only sharing the parts of me that I feel will not drive them away.
The truth is, I’m terrified of what really being me will mean. To my family, to my friends, current and future, and to me. The truth is, I don’t know how to stop being afraid of the potential that’s out there for me, because I’ve never had the opportunity to really be myself without fear of judgement.
Truth. The truth is hard.
But, the truth is, if there’s one thing the past few months have taught me, it’s that I can handle hard.