the stories we tell ourselves

a love letter from my 23yo self, transposed without corrections

because weird formatting is kinda adorable, actually

27 June, 2021

How do we live bravely?
We let ourselves fail.
We’re going to fail anyway.
So why not fail better?

I’m being facetious, and deliberately so.
Let’s be real.
Modern life is — or can be — exhausting.
But what’s most exhausting of all isn’t the day-to-day.
It’s pretending. It’s performing. It’s putting on a brave face.
It’s not being able to be who and what you are, at that moment.
It's always having to be on guard.
So guarded that you're afraid to ask what you're afraid of.
You just know that you're scared.
The aim?
Just be with whatever is.
Flawed.
Imperfect.
Wandering.

Rachel Clifton (age 23)

I’m 23 and guttural, but age doesn’t matter.
And there’s something about femininity and womanhood here too, I think.
Notions of who we are (and aren’t) allowed to be.
Notions of who we allow ourselves to be.
The public, the private -- and, of course, our dreams.
My dreams may not be your dreams.
My fears may not be your fears.
That doesn’t matter.
Still, we are more similar than we are different.
We need to slow down and be still.
Only then can we see clearly.
Only then can we hear what's really going on.