There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd step into the social arena like a gladiator armed with self-deprecation. It was my shield, my way of steering the chariot before the lions of judgment could pounce. Especially around the fairer sex, I'd toss out a quip about myself, a preemptive strike of wit, showing I was the maestro of my own shortcomings.
As an artist, my brush strokes were bold, my canvas alive with confidence. You'd think such assurance would waltz me through the dance of courtship. But alas, when it came to the gaze of Aphrodite's descendants, I felt more like a sketch than a masterpiece. A history of rebuffs, a skin etched with the adolescent storms of acne, left my self-esteem teetering on a precarious easel.
As for many of my comrades, they seemed to navigate these waters with the grace of Casanovas, finding love's harbor quite easily. Meanwhile, I was adrift, battling the squalls of self-doubt. But here's the kicker – the epiphany that washed over me like a gentle summer's rain: our worth isn't a prize to be won in the eyes of others. It's an innate treasure, a birthright that doesn't hinge on the fickle tides of attraction.
We're all entitled to stand tall, to claim our space in the pantheon of self-respect. With that in mind, I think it's best we learn to anchor our souls, not in the shallow pools of external validation but in the deep, still waters of self-acceptance. I understand that can be very challenging, my friends, but I'm discovering it's a voyage worth taking
