How I Built A Bridge and Got Over It
Until very recently, I hated myself without even knowing it. My confidence had reached an all-time low during my first semester of college (and no, it was not entirely due to the freshman 15—or 20 in my case) and I had begun to dance around my college dorm room so as to avoid the daunting reflection that would meet me in the mirror as I left for class each day. And if it weren’t for a global health crisis that allowed for a lot of time to think, my moms help in changing my poor habits one deliciously healthy dinner at a time, and Jen Sincero’s self-help book You Are A Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life, this change in how I see myself might have never happened.
There are three pivotal moments that aided in my epiphany that I was living a one-of-a-kind, privileged life filled with love and friends and family, but was neglecting to really enjoy it.
The first story starts off in my aforementioned, slightly-smelly, considerably tiny dorm room on Valentine’s Day. I had just returned from the university health center with a diagnosed case of strep throat. Going to the health center, however, meant getting weighed for chart purposes. I threw my humongous jacket on my lofted bed, turned towards the mirror I had been avoiding for weeks, and took a long and hard look. I was 18 pounds heavier than I was when I began college, acne-ridden, and was eaten up by a sweatshirt that was two sizes too large. How had I gotten there? Actually, I knew the answer to that. It was most likely a product of the mac and cheese pizza slices every Saturday night, the fact that I never drank more than a glass of water a day, and that I hadn’t gone to bed before 3 AM most nights. The unhealthy habits began to build upon one another, my transition into college life became harder, and I started to lose sight of the girl that I once was. After a very long cry session and a subsequent intervention for myself, I decided to make a change. I made a decision to eat clean, exercise, drink about a gallon of water a day, and wait patiently to see what would happen. It’s not like I lost two semesters worth of weight in a week or like my acne had cleared up overnight, but it was a start. I wanted to feel at ease in my own skin again, and I was going to make it happen.
The second story began where the first one ended; I was getting ready for a night out with friends, and to put it simply... I was feeling myself. Over the quarantine, I had lost the weight I put on in college (and then some), my skin cleared up, and I was feeling the best I had in a while. With my hair blown out and makeup done I went to get the door for my friends and almost instantly, I became the girl in the dorm room mirror all over again. My mind immediately started racing; wondering how they were all so beautiful, so skinny, and so kind at the same time. Eventually, it hit the motherload of dark thoughts—why did they want to be friends with me? I suppressed the feelings, went for dinner, and got drunk with my best friends in a Mexican restaurant’s parking lot, seated directly parallel from a group of dumpsters. It wasn’t until we got picked up by my friend’s mom that my wasted self decided that it couldn’t hold it in anymore. I never wanted to be that kind of drunk but here I was, drunk on gin and cheese enchiladas, crying in the backseat of my best friend’s mom’s car. It was time for another intervention, only this time, I received it from my friends (mom included) rather than from myself. It only took them reminding me of some cute boys that I had kissed in the past, an abundance of compliments, and one real estate analogy for me to realize that I am a good person deserving of love from others. Apparently, drunk me was more suited to recognize that there is a difference between feeling grateful and feeling unworthy. I learned that night to accept the fact that my friends love me, acknowledge that I did something to earn that love, try to love myself that same way, and move on enjoying every moment, every night getting drunk in a parking lot with the best people on earth.
And finally, the last stop on the train to self-acceptance begins in my family’s most used room in the house: the kitchen. We were sitting at dinner, talking about a friend of mine whose achievements I frequently brag about as if they were my own when I thought, and subsequently asked my family “What am I good at?”. My parents turned to face one another and—after my dad had cracked a few less than funny jokes—began to list a few things that I had previously deemed as talents that I was just mediocre at.
“You’re an excellent writer”.
That was my mom’s favorite.
“You can snowboard”.
Good effort, dad.
“You can sing pretty well”.
Really, mom? You went with a skill of mine that only sees the light of day when I take a shower and decide that I am Lady Gaga in “A Star is Born”? I began to see my question as a fruitless effort in identifying something that I was actually good at. And as my parents were well-intentioned cheerleaders that would always see me in the brightest possible light, I knew that I couldn’t receive validation from them; I would need it from my worst critic: myself. See, when my brilliant friend went out and did something awesome, naturally, I attributed it to her awesome self. But when I went out and wrote something that brought my mom to tears or looked up to see that I had completed a black diamond run (albeit the easiest black diamond on the mountain but that’s neither here nor there), it was an act of luck or a case of right place right time. It wasn’t until recently that I allowed myself to admit that I am good at things and the awesome things that I do are a product of my awesome self. It’s okay that I wasn’t attending science fairs, winning academic awards, or baking exquisite masterpieces. Someone had to hold down the fort, blessing the house with my rendition of “Shallow” anyway.
So basically, I built a bridge and got over it.
I’m not implying that I’m some omniscient, self-assured individual—it’s only been about two days since I stopped crying and realized that I actually do look great in mom jeans. I just want to enjoy the incredible life I was granted and the people that make it such. And maybe cry a little less. No one likes a sad drunk.
By Jolie Horowitz, Wisconsin ‘23