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.

There are many different ways people absolve themselves of responsibility.

“I couldn’t have known it would turn out like this.”

“I think I did enough.”

“I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“I didn’t want to get involved.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“I thought it would do more harm than good.”

“Well, hindsight is 20/20.”

When the mantle of responsibility is small, excuses seem more feasible. We’ve all taken the path of least resistance at some point.

However, there are moments when no excuse can recuse you from acting.

Moments when you stand in the gap between what is, and what should be.

Moments when you have the power to make a difference or take a stand.

It’s certainly not easy to bear responsibility. To say the hard thing. To deal with the consequences.

What if everything gets worse before it gets better? What if I hurt more than I help? What if I put myself out there, and no one listens? What if nothing changes?

Is it worth it?

I spent years in various positions at a summer camp, from serving as an assistant counselor at 15, to becoming the program director at 28. My level of responsibility for the children we welcomed and the staff I worked with was different in each role, but at the core of each position there was an ironclad understanding: whatever else we might do in a day, our priority was to keep the kids safe.

Safe in the water, safe on the rock wall, safe in the middle of a soccer game, safe on a hike through the woods. If we wanted to plan something or do something, the first question we had to answer was simple: would the kids be safe? And if the answer was ambiguous, or there wasn’t a way to guarantee their well-being, we wouldn’t do it.

When I became the director of the camp, I considered buying a t-shirt that said “NO” because I was so tired of giving that answer, day in, day out. I wanted everyone to have fun — but my responsibility to protect our campers had to win out. That line in the sand didn’t always make me popular. And tough things still happened, even when we took every precaution possible. But I could lie in bed every night fairly secure in the knowledge that I’d done what I could for our kids.

Several times in that span of years, I was obligated to report abuse.

We were trained to be aware of the signs of emotional, physical, or sexual interference, and to be ready to listen to kids who arrived with heavy burdens. We knew not to ask leading questions or to push for information if we suspected something, but more often than not, the secrets and pain would emerge without any sort of encouragement. At that point, we’d be required to report what we’d been told. Not to assume what had happened or to condemn anyone or to push for more information, but to report and follow through to the full extent the law allowed. If you suspected something was up and you failed to report it, you could end up in serious hot water.

But it wasn’t the legal obligation that made me take that difficult step, over and over; it was my inherent belief that I was responsible for those children. I was entrusted with their care. To ignore that something had, and might continue to hurt them was not an option.

When I told kids it was my responsibility to tell someone who could help them, most of them would cry — sometimes out of relief, sometimes out of anger, and sometimes out of fear. I hated those moments, because it felt like I was hurting them again. And as is often the case with hidden truth bubbling to the surface, it was going to get worse before it got better.

I was yelled at.

I was threatened.

I was called a liar.

I was told that I’d ruined a life.

But as long as I reported only what I’d seen and been told — no extrapolation, no assumptions, no rushing to judgment, no witch hunts, no gossiping or breaking of trust — I could live with the response. From there, the law dictated we had to leave it in the hands of the authorities, to avoid posing additional risk to the child, or their family, or my staff. We did everything up to the point we could do no more, and followed up in any way we could from there.

Sometimes that was the hardest part. Always that was the hardest part.

To hit the wall of “all I could do.”

“All I could do” still haunts me sometimes.

That’s why I can’t understand what’s happening at Penn State right now.

I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t have done more if there was more to do.

When you weren’t handcuffed by rules.

When you held a position of authority that gave you the power to follow through — and the responsibility, morally and ethically.

Former Penn State Nittany Lions coach Joe Paterno “fulfilled his legal obligation”, according to counsel, because he told Tim Curley what he’d been told.

His former close co-worker and friend of more than three decades, Jerry Sandusky, was suspected of doing — witnessed doing — something beyond horrifying, repeatedly, over the course of several years, to those most vulnerable among us… and he “fulfilled his legal obligation.”

The locker room Joe gave pep talks in for years — where wins were celebrated, where losses were mourned, where character was refined, where standards were set– was potentially the site of incomprehensible evil… and he “fulfilled his legal obligation.”

There were questions to be asked, reports to follow up on, and kids who might need help. But Joe — a father of five children who attended Penn State, a grandfather of seventeen, and a coach and mentor to hundreds and thousands more young people — had “fulfilled his legal obligation,” so that would be the end of it.

Until it wasn’t. And it won’t be.

So to Mr. Paterno and those fans and students who support his choice — if you can call a riot “supportive” — I leave you with five things that are true:

Children are more important than football. Adults are responsible to know this.

Children are more important than not making waves or putting a dent in a friendship. Adults are responsible to know this.

Children are more important than your reputation or your ranking. Adults are responsible to know this.

Children deserve protection and safety, and to be made a priority. Adults are responsible to know this.

If you choose to believe and act otherwise, you bear responsibility for your choice.

And for that, there is no absolution.