I mean it… say it right now. Tell me I’m great and mean it. Tell me that you notice all the little amazing things I can’t see. Tell me you see me—and see me for all of me, my flaws and all—and choose to stay with me anyway. Tell me that everything I do is enough.
Tell me that being a full-time student, working a full-time overnight job, taking care of a dog, running four times a week while training for a marathon, going to the gym five times a week, reading at least thirty minutes a day, knitting a sweater, cooking all my own meals, and keeping up with my skincare routine is almost triple what someone does in one week. Tell me you see it. Tell me you see that I’m amazing and that you can’t believe I’m able to handle so much.
Tell me I’m so ambitious and that you wish you could be me. Tell me. Tell me that anyone would be lucky to have me—lucky enough to fit somewhere in all this chaotic mess that I call my life.
You said it’s too much. I try too hard. I spend my life too consumed within the confines of the perfect bubble I’ve created. You scratch at the surface, begging to make it pop. I won’t let you in. You think I’m a lot. You’ll try to break me down into something measly, just like you. You’ll tell me it’s okay to stop. I don’t want to stop. You don’t fit. I barely do.
You think I’m great, so you’ll tear me down until I’m good, then until I’m fine, and then, at the end, I’ll be pulp.
But I won’t let you make me anything other than great.