Today, on my walk to work I noticed something fluttering just ahead on the sidewalk. As I got closer, I saw that it was a small bird with a broken leg, desperately trying to get back on its feet. Upon an even closer look, I realized it was a baby who had fallen out of its mama’s nest above. 

I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

As a kid I had tried to save ants who had been stepped on, salamanders who’d been stuck in pool drains, and even a bunny who had been hit by a car. I knew that I couldn’t do very much of anything for the little soul, of course, but I tried anyway. 

I know you aren’t supposed to touch them directly for fear of their mothers rejecting them, but a quick internet search said I could try to lightly prop it up with a stick and pour a tiny bit of cold water on it. So, I did just that. He didn’t look like he had any chance of making it, though. I just stared at his fluffy little body for a few minutes as he tried to power through.

I called my mom thinking maybe she’d have an idea. After all, she called every animal hospital in Massachusetts when we were trying to save that bunny with the broken leg. All of them said they couldn’t do anything but put Bunny Rainbow out of its misery, and I still vividly remember her replying with “you don’t have some sort of… bunny cast to put on it?”

By the time I realized I was severely late to work, I knew it was time to go. I said goodbye to the broken birdie and wondered if this was one of those defining moments that make people decide to go vegan. Just as I started to walk away, my mom called me back.

“You called?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

And then I burst into tears. I tried to explain in between little sobs what had happened, then profusely apologized for being such a fool. I certainly don’t know any other 25-year-olds who need Circle of Life pep talks from their mothers. At least I can most certainly confirm I am cut from the same cloth, since she recalled the time she tried to save a baby squirrel back when her and my dad were newlyweds. 

I hung up the phone and, as I so often do, wondered why I had this encounter. I wondered what it is about me that found it so difficult to walk away.

I don’t know why I cried, other than the fact that I am a generally sensitive girl. My immediate thoughts are that this is proof that a hurting creature can fall from the sky and I will feel 100% responsible for fixing it. 

I feel responsible for helping others work through their emotions all the time. It feels as though that’s my lot in life, and often why I think I was put on this earth. Just break up with your boyfriend? Boss treating you unfairly at work? Something more serious? Something less? No matter what it is, if you come to me, I will try my best to fix it. 

My other thoughts are that I needed the cry. The news just this past week is shocking. It’s paralyzing. And most of all, it makes me feel helpless. People are incredibly scared and people are dying. And I can’t even fix a broken baby bird. If we’re going to go that deep, watching that little bird in pain and knowing there was nothing I could do about it felt like a whole lot of symbolism. 

So, I decided to take it as this: even when you’re not sure if you’re really helping, keep your intentions pure. Keep your intentions good. Don’t turn your attention elsewhere because the bad stuff isn’t directly in front of you. It may be difficult to look at, but you have to try. I don’t know what I can personally do to make things better, but I’m going to find a way. The broken birds of the world don’t need pity, they just need people who are willing to fight for their lives, too.

I feel ugly today. And that is not due to the fact that I am only wearing chapstick and mascara or that I didn’t style my hair just so or that I didn’t pull together the perfect outfit. Sometimes, you wake up, you look in the mirror, and you don’t exactly feel your best.

Except, that is not really how it went for me this morning. This morning I got out of bed, I washed my face, and I thought, my skin is looking pretty nice today!

Throughout high school and college I had a problem-free complexion. I always knew to thank my genes and bless my Noxzema on the reg and prayed I could somehow evade a breakout forever. Alas, my skin decided I’ve had it easy for too long and deemed now – my mid-twenties – a good time to rebel. It’s hard, but today I felt good about it. Great about it, even.

This morning I also thought my hair looked nice. I treated myself to a hair mask last night and let it air dry in a tight braid. I’ve always liked the wavy way my hair dries in a braid, ever since I was little and crimping was all the rage. There’s something oddly satisfying about it.

When I went to get dressed, I congratulated myself on not turning away from my own reflection as I so often do. Sometimes I just don’t want to see my body, for fear of picking it apart and not focusing on what about it I love. But today I looked, and today I saw a body that I felt proud of.

So, I put on my chapstick and mascara, let my locks fly free, and walked out the door feeling happy and confident.

Days like these can sometimes be hard to come by for girls like me. It can be so hit or miss. And I rarely speak of my insecurities to anyone other than the people I love because it never comes off in the refreshing way it does when celebrities speak about theirs. No one tells a regular woman she is brave for acknowledging her cellulite or the ridge in her nose or whatever she dislikes the most about herself. It comes off as fishing for compliments, or people will say you’re absurd, or you’ll just being silenced altogether. So, I try not to talk about it, but I remember to be grateful for the days I wake up and am good with the person I see.

How did I get here, then? How did I get right here, to this moment, feeling like I could crumple into a ball? I went on Instagram during my commute. That was it, that was all it took for my positive vibes to escape from my clutch and flutter away.

And I hate saying that because I am aware of how weak that makes me sound. Or I guess, how weak it makes me feel. (That’s right, I’m insecure about having insecurities.) I know saying it out loud makes me look as though I don’t know how much photoshop goes into a picture, or how much money it takes to get the perfect pout or body or whatever you’re after. But that is not really it for me, I know all of that. I’ve always known all of that.

It’s the real girls. It is the women around me that I end up comparing myself to. For some reason, it is harder to get past when you feel like you’re all on the same playing field.

I’ve been comparing myself to others since as far back as I can remember. I felt like I was the only 3rd grader with baby fat, and I didn’t understand why no one else looked like me. Or better yet, why I didn’t look like everyone else. You would think by now, years after I shed the baby fat, that I would’ve learned that lesson.

And there have been times where I do think that I have learned that lesson. But then I remember that I didn’t go to the beach once last summer because I couldn’t bear to think of taking off my coverup. My friends were sitting in my driveway, waiting for me to come out, and I would just tell them I could not go. I had to feed the dogs. Water the plants. Take in the mail. I simply couldn’t go.

Knowing that finding your inner beauty can only come from yourself, though, can sometimes that can be the hardest pill to swallow. My father told me I looked beautiful every single morning as I got ready for school. My mother always makes sure I know I am gorgeous inside and out, no matter what. My boyfriend typically cannot fathom my feeling this way, but I know he does everything he can to understand it. The thing is, is that my insecurities have never stemmed anywhere but from within and it is not up to other people to fix them. Although I will forever appreciate those that try to patch me up, self-love can of course only come from yourself.

Body image is something I have always wanted to speak on but I never could get the courage up, so this is very difficult for me. It is time to be a little brave, however, and finally say hey, I’ve been there. I’m still sometimes there.

I do have days where I feel beautiful and smart and powerful and more than enough. I thought today would be one of them. It did’t work out that way, but that’s alright. Each day is a lesson learned. Loving yourself is a process and it is important to remember that it’s alright if you’re struggling with it.

And, most of all, it’s ok to say it out loud.

It has been about a year since I posted to my blog. Ironically, my last post was about writer’s block. I promised myself that I would post more, but the words just didn’t follow.

The words used to always flow out of me, but now I feel like I am constantly looking for something that either makes me feel passionate enough to write about or something that I feel I deserve to write about.

And, while this past year certainly has had its lows, I realized it is because I am happy. I am so content with my life right now. Through the stress and through the tears, I know at the end of the day I am the happiest I have ever been.

The only problem with this, however, is that I do not know how to separate the happiness I am feeling in my personal life from the anger I am feeling towards the state of our country. Or rather, the guilt that I feel for even being happy in the first place.

I never wanted my blog to have a political focus, or any focus for that matter, because I wanted it to be whatever was on my mind that day. I still do want that for myself. But at a certain point, it felt wrong for me to gush about my job or my boyfriend or my new apartment without first addressing the world around me.

So, that is my intention now, before I jump into the more frivolous things in life.

The events that occurred in DC this past week affected me deeply, hit uncomfortably close to home, and truly made me reflect on what it means to use my voice. I have seen others speak up over the course of the last week and watched the imminent debate in the comments unfold in real time. My first instinct is to jump in and take a stance, but I always refrain. It is, without a doubt, one of my least favorite qualities about myself.

Politics have seeped into just about everything. There is enough to be mad about, it is hard not to layer that anger onto more and more aspects of your life. And my inclination is to say that we all have every right to do so. After all, you never know how you may get through to someone.

And then I remember that if we politicize everything, we have nothing left to ourselves. Even my rainy, lazy Sundays in bed will have a twinge of acrimony. That is when the guilt comes creeping back and I get frustrated all over again because there can always be something to be unhappy about if you let it in.

Writing has always meant so much to me as an outlet, as a vehicle to say how I feel, and as a way to connect with those that I may not typically otherwise. It has always been difficult to bite the bullet and publish something. Now I feel even more vulnerable than before because my love for writing deeply clashes with my need to please.

I want to be outspoken at the same time that I want you to like me, and I think it is about time that I choose between the two. And I have finally decided to say that it is more important to my core values that I say what I want to say instead of saying what people want to hear.

It isn’t so much that I don’t have anything to lose as much as I have everything to gain. I have already been called all of the bad names. I have already been told to shut up. I have already woken up feeling bitter enough to last me the whole day.

At this point, speaking my mind is only going to help me sort through my frustrations, sort out the guilt, and find the good. And I hope you all figure out the best way to find the good, too.