This year, I choose me. It’s not a new year’s resolution as much as a new outlook. It’s not something I can succeed or fail at and not something to grade. It is not something to fear or avoid. I am walking through the forest of life, tripping over roots and slipping on fallen leaves and I am simply choosing a new path: a path where I am the most important. I am leaning into self-care, building safe environments, choosing what I want and need. I choose me. 

Last year, I chose paths that left me in tears. I chose to work late on a night when my father had asked for support in celebrating a small accomplishment – after years fighting against aphasia, he was the expert on the six o’clock news and I missed his segment. I chose to push my emotions aside to be the perfect organizer of an event – at a memorial for violence against women, I did not leave room for me to cry. I chose to work through lunches while struggling with an eating disorder and ignore the echoing voices of every professional on my health care team. I chose to suppress my enthusiasm and limit my intensity, not smile in meetings and not dance in the office, because this is what my performance review said to do. I chose to not walk my dog, more often than not, because I simply did not have the energy. These paths sometimes left me in exhausted, sobbing breakdowns. Sometimes, these paths left me numb. I’m not sure which hurt more.

I call these “choices” because I cannot escape the shame, the guilt, and the embarrassment from what I feel like I should be able to control. Every one of these situations hits on my greatest fears – failing my loved ones, failing my work, failing me. However, as my therapist reminds me, it is never too late for a breath of self-compassion. In the new year of “choosing me”, I choose to reframe. I choose to not accept the same, the guilt, or the embarrassment as is. These so-called choices stemmed from bigger situations and events outside of my control. I didn’t choose to work late, a project demanded it. I didn’t choose to not walk my dog, I truly lacked the energy and strength. In a new year of choosing me, I choose not to own this fault.

This year, I will start a new job (this is a fact). I am turning my back on my dream job (this is hyperbole), abandoning projects I care about (this is guilt), and deserting my passions (this is anxiety). I label each of these (fact, hyperbole, guilt, anxiety) because, in a new year of choosing me, I choose to reframe. Reframing will be an ongoing exercise and I will offer self-compassion as I learn – forgiving myself when I don’t but trying again nonetheless. The details of my old job and my new job don’t matter. What matters is that when my father asks for support in celebrating a small accomplishment, when I want to cry at an emotional event, and at the end of the day when my dog wags her tail, I want to be there. This new job will let me be there, where my old job wouldn’t. This choice still makes me cry, still makes me feel guilt and anxiety. It may for a while. Self-compassion dictates that I make space for these feelings, so I will. I will cry and remind myself of the facts.

This is what is right for me right now. In an effort to address former hyperboles and anxieties, I have come face to face with the fact that there are no “dream jobs” or “perfect choices”. With every changing day and flap of a butterflies’ wings the world will change and you will change with it. There is only what is right for you right now. And if what I care about right now is watching my father on the six o’clock news and walking my dog, then I choose what will achieve this. My old job (not my dream job, just my old job) didn’t allow for this. My new job does.

So, yes, I have accepted a new job that emphasizes 4-day work weeks and flexible hours. And there is no shame in saying I need that right now. But, I am also excited for a boss with crazy coloured hair who laughs when my cat jumps on screen and asks how we make room for authentic emotions in social science research. I’m not forgetting the passion and drive I loved in my former vision of a dream job, I’m just choosing a new mix of these things. 

In the swirl of emotions, I can’t help but realize that my choices may benefit my mental illness as well. That working from home means I can cook and meal prep (great for my eating disorder) and flexible hours means I can explore fitness and hobbies (great for my anxiety). Choosing me isn’t a disaster or a loss or an embarrassment, it actually works on so many different levels. Suddenly all of the self-help books make a bit more sense. Suddenly choosing me makes a bit more sense.

I can choose me in a million different ways. I can choose work-life balance and a new career direction. I can reevaluate my chronic ideas of perfection and focus on current desires and needs. I can do bubble baths when I want and therapy when I need. I can pick a new sewing project and finally explore cosplay, learn how to cook with cauliflower, and explore hiking trails near my home. These desires and needs may be fleeting, and that’s okay. In a year where I choose me, I will validate myself and constantly adjust my goals. There is no fixed perfection, no everlasting goals. Just me. So, I’m choosing to be selfish. Happily, confidently, and still anxiously, choosing to be selfish (my anxiety is always there, but we’re reframing that too). I’m choosing me.

Today I walked my dog. I felt the cool air on my neck, watched the happy swing of my dog’s tail, and decided to choose me.

I’ll say this to you, but can’t say this to me: you are strong, you are fierce, you are capable.

I’ll say this to you, but never to me: I believe in you, I love you, you can do this.

The words we say to others go far beyond hypocrisy. They are ingrained in the very being of who we are and what we are not: it’s ok to love others and wrong to love yourself. It is not hypocritical, but instead two distinct beasts. Love is not equal, not deserved, not worthy. Love is a gift that can only be given, never taken or accepted. We are alone in this battle where we hold up the world and tear down ourselves. This is what I’ll say to me, but will never say to you.

Because you deserve the love that is the greatest of all, which is that which you’ve given to me. Your love that supports me and holds me in my most painful moments is something that I want for you. Every tear, heartbreak, and empty scream that stands before you is worthy of your own love. The love you give to me is the greatest, most powerful gift. It embodies me to continue and persevere into the darkness. It is both the lantern in my hand and the hope at the end. I want you to feel this. I want you to see this. I want you to have this. Your love is the greatest, so please, accept it yourself.

I know who I’m saying this to as I write these words. I can see you and I know I want to say it.

You are the one who spent the day crying but won’t tell me you spent the day crying because a moment of peace is worth the denial. We talk about our personal battles as if we are standing back to back in broken chain mail armor, our shields shaking as two very distinct armies approach us, one from either direction. They won’t touch the other; no, these armies want just one: you or me. These are two very different wars waging violently, but we have chosen to fight them, back to back, in broken chain mail armour, our shields shaking.

I know who I’m saying this to as I write these words. I can’t see you, but I know I want you to hear it.

You are a whisper on a computer screen, not yet brave enough or ready to turn on your camera. But when my voice warbles and whimpers as I ask for help, your words pour through the chat to hold me together. You are not one, but many people with your own plots, antagonists, and chapters left to tell. But in my story you are one: the one that shares their hardships and advice and love. The greatest love.

I know who I’m saying this to as I write these words. I can feel you in who I am and in who I want to be.

You are the one running through the trees beside me, a fairy, a wizard, a princess, tripping over roots and calling out so our fantasies can be shared together. We walked together for the beginning and as I watch you take your own path, I worry. I worry that you don’t realize you were my guardian on the playground, and that you won’t protect yourself. I worry that that you won’t hear your pride in me, and not feel it in your own bones. I worry that you won’t see the light in the fantasies that you built that built me, as these fantasies that let me thrive could do the same for you.

Yes, I will say these things to you, but can’t say them to me. I will never say them to me.

Unless, of course, you tell me to. Because as I write these words, I know you write them too. Our love is for each other, but never for ourselves. This letter is the love that I can give you, but not me. The question of why is not the point. I write this letter so that you can read it and love, but maybe I can read it and do the same. I can love you, and you can love me, and you should love you, and…

This letter is the love that I can show you, but not me.

Not yet.

Not today.  

But, maybe, with your love…maybe even with my love…tomorrow.