i shall be proud of me
I was used to people not liking how they look in their younger days and looking back on their past selves/selfies/memories with regret. I was so used to it because even I hated mine.
I remember back then when I hoped that my future self would be so much better... way better than I was, as if I was disgusting. It was so easy to nitpick what was horrible about me. I hated the 'me' so much back then... and I hated remembering her. No one taught me how important it is to love myself.
Well, I had to reach my 33rd year of living to realize that I actually did better than I thought I did. Reading through my past blogs, notes, and diaries... memories of courage, resilience, patience, kindness, and sacrifices came rushing in to me. And I can't help but be proud of me.
I realized I usually chose to remember the bad ones. When did I decided to do that? To bury the book of best memories and always open the bitter one. I wish I could pat my old self at the back during those hard times and just say that I'm pretty much okay. That I was actually doing a fair, if not good, job.
I guess when your childhood lacked the affirmation you needed on those moments you stood and stayed resilient, you just can't help but wonder if you're doing okay... if what you're doing is right. The I-should-have-done-this-differently mentality overtakes you and you just wish you're somebody else. I guess, as an eldest kid, I just couldn't escape that kind of introspection, especially with the responsibilities and weight I had to carry.
I'm not saying I don't have stuff that I regret doing... that I didn't wish I was better. It's not that. There are still those moments, memories, and mistakes that I cringe or cry remembering... but I will not diminish my old self's efforts or undervalue her. I'm quitting looking back with regret.
Starting today, I will be kind to me. I will remember me with gratitude and pride. 'Cause, hey, i'm still here. And I can't deny that I'm here because of her.
From this day forward, I shall be proud of me.












