I don’t know why I’m insecure, but I am.

Perhaps it was unavoidable. As soon as I became aware of people who were different than me in some way? As soon as I existed in comparison with others? As soon as I wasn’t great at something… and it mattered? There I was.

Did it start when I was younger? Perhaps, but I come from a very encouraging family, so I don’t feel much of the cause lands on their doorstep. Yes, there were and are standards to live up to, and yes, I’ve failed to achieve those standards a time or two (or twenty) — but love was never dependent on success.

I’ve moved fairly often. Maybe that’s it. The not knowing what to expect? The not knowing what the norms are? The not quite fitting in at first? I don’t doubt it played a role in making me the person I am, for better or for worse. But I think more of the best parts of my personality were developed (and continue to develop) because I had no choice but to adapt to new people and new situations, even if they didn’t care to adapt to me.

My friendships have been hit or miss in terms of encouragement and acceptance over the years, so perhaps there’s a kernel there… but that’s how it is for most of us, right? I’ve had many dear friends who take me just as I am, but I’ve had a few that unequivocally wanted me to be something else: smarter, prettier, richer, funnier, more connected, more socially or politically or religiously aligned… whatever. You can say they weren’t “real friends”, but I didn’t see that at the time. I tried to be all things to all people, and failed. So is that it? Are those conversations and opinions the ones that have planted awkward seeds in my heart, instead of the ones full of acceptance and wisdom?

Maybe it’s Society that did it. You know: Big S Society. Society with biases. Society with prejudices. Society with barriers. Society with problems and trends and upticks and downturns. It may well be that my problems started as a result of things that preexist and dwarf me in their impact. Maybe?

But here’s the real question: does it really matter? I’ve wondered, I’ve pondered, I’ve looked back, I’ve dug deep, I’ve explored. And maybe in the midst of wondering why, I’ve stayed in a place I didn’t need to be.

Yes, it’s good to know why you feel how you feel, and to discover where and how you chose the lens through which you view yourself and the world. If you can find the leak that let your confidence leech away, you might be able to make it stop.

In the end, however, letting go of that internal judgment is a choice, whether I make it with more knowledge or less. I will be the one charged with clearing my path, even if I didn’t plant and grow the brambles that tangle it now.

Hurtful words aren’t going to be wiped from the face of my memory. Or maybe they will.

Things I wanted, but failed to get, aren’t suddenly going to appear in my life by sheer force of will. Or maybe I’ll get them yet.

Mistakes I made are still going to carry consequences. And maybe they won’t be too bad.

People who don’t like me or enjoy my company aren’t going to suddenly rethink their impressions. Or perhaps we’ll become friends.

The women I’ve known who practice self-hate aren’t going to magically figure out that I’m indicting myself painfully according to their standards. Or maybe they’ll be easier on themselves.

The men I’ve known who saw me as a dress size instead of a person will continue to search for a girl who fits the bikini tattooed on their brains. Or maybe they’ll expand their idea of what beauty is.

I will still wake up tomorrow morning with crooked teeth and squint-earned crow’s feet and a short neck and scarred legs or and frizzy hair with interludes of gray. Or maybe I’ll stand taller and see a twinkle in my eye.

But I can’t put off accepting myself until these things happen. Because something else will come up.

Really.

Someone will always be smarter, prettier, more skilled, more financially secure, a better friend, a better daughter, a better wife, a better mom. There is no perfect in my future.

That’s why I have to decide I am enough right now, list or no list.

And then I have to move on, even if I stumble along the way.

It’s not a matter of settling for mediocre, because whether I get it deep down or not, the life I have now is a rich one, and I know I can add more joy to every single day of it by investing in that belief. And I have faith that I can change the world in very real ways with my efforts and hopes and dreams.

But doing any of it to compensate for feeling less or worse or ugly or incomplete — or because I think someone else sees me that way — has always tainted even the best results, and I’ll be damned if that sounds like a good plan for another 37 years.

Let there be peace in Meg… and let it begin with me.

I am terrified of bees, but “honey” is my most frequently used term of endearment.

I feel confident walking down the street in a dicey area, but I lock doors compulsively.

I hate the price of shoes, but never flinch at the cost of a pedicure.

I made a point of trying to own my name everywhere online for a decade, but didn’t think twice about changing it when I got married.

I have autoimmune issues, but go to the doctor less often than almost anyone I know.

I put a high price on my abilities, but rarely ever charge it.

I hate wasting food, but I am totally blind to leftovers in my fridge.

I read fluffy girly magazines, but loathe fluffy girly novels.

I prefer to have my hair long, but wear it up 95% of the time.

I will jump off a cliff 50 feet into the water, but am terrified of slipping getting into a boat.

I love to buy organic and local, but McDonald’s fries are my number one life craving.

I have an English degree, work as a writer, and love words, but my books were the easiest thing to let go of in my move across the continent.

I am insistent on having cable television, but I can count the hours I watch in a week on two hands.

I am a long-term insomniac who doesn’t fall asleep until hours after bedtime, but I wake up five minutes before my alarm goes off 99% of the time.

I like to see a million recipe options for the things I plan to cook, but never consider following them to the letter.

I own ten zillion kinds of moisturizer, but I can’t remember the last time I thought to put it on my legs.

I love making lists to get organized, but always forget where I put them.