Allie Brazas - Flawed and (Still) Worthy: Owning Your Journey and Embracing Your Flaws

When I was seven, my family took a week - long summer vacation to California. We periodically ventured out to popular tourist attractions and dinner joints, but agreed to spend most of our time by the ocean. As I remember it, every day the sun shone, the water was warm, and our faces fried. My brother Luke loved diving headfirst into the waves over and over again, boogie board in hand, wearing solid blue swim trunks and an infectious smile, while I preferred to park it on the sand. Sandwiched safely between my parents beach chairs, I spent whole afternoons molding the sparkly sand and daydreaming about the kind of fairytale life I would someday have for myself.

My sand art would change, but the story always stayed the same. A circular mound was my castle. My white sand rake made the perfect picket fence. The dirty blue sand bucket was my husband. I was the red sand scoop. Together we stood watch over a brood of multicolored seashell children. When everything was hard - packed and placed just so, Id pronounce my empire complete. My version of the future looked so quintessential and grand laid out in the sand. The idea that things could turn out any other way never even crossed my radar.

But just like the old proverb says: hindsight is 20/20.

By ten, Id learned a thing or two about fairytales. They are not, for example, immune to competition. I may still have been in the daydreaming stage, but comparisons were starting to emergegood, better, bestas I first sized myself up next to those closest to me (my parents, my brother), followed by those who had what I wanted (my peers). It would spur me to do, be, and strive for more, until finally thered be just one opponent left to beat: the one staring back at me in the mirror.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see? Someone standing tall and confident, proud of all the shit shes been through and overcome? Or does your head hang low, your shoulders stooped beneath the shame of where youve been and discouragement at how far you still have to go?

The answer to that question will determine if you should keep reading.

When I begrudgingly looked in the mirrorat ten, at twelve, at eighteen, at twenty - five I consistently found an exceptionally flawed reflection staring back at me. Exhaustion from the horrific trauma I had endured and the pain I had survived left scars that made my sand - molded future seem far out of reach. The sandcastle family and all the dreams that went with it began slowly drifting away with the tide. Haunted by the remnants of my past, I no longer felt worthy of a future so dreamy, so perfect.

I was always my own worst critic, constantly competing against myself. I habitually held myself to impossible standards, and when I tried but failed to meet them, I never praised my efforts. There were no, Atta - boys . No, Youll do better next time. I didnt acknowledge my hard work in the mirror because all I saw was a defective little girl, slumped over and disgraced.

At seven, I didnt think my fairytale future was a huge stretch. A spouse, a house, some kidsI mean, lets be real: most humans desire those things. But after Id done everything in the wrong order (pregnant before marriage; a missed deployment that subsequently tarnished my career), it made a sick kind of sense that my husband would perish and my entire world would be threatened by a man who used and abused his high - ranking power. My life no longer looked like my familys lives, or my friends lives, or even the lives of the strangers who lived next door. My life looked discombobulated and completely out of control, and it was all I could do to try and keep up with the Joneses.

Thats what we as women do to ourselves: exacerbate lifes already hard times by comparing ourselves to others, placing ourselves in a competition that neither participant wants to be in. Im not saying its entirely our faultthe societal standards were held to definitely play a rolebut ladies, WE are in control of how we respond to those expectations. Women are expected to smile, be polite, brush our hair, not get fat, not get too thin, not be too boisterous, not be too shy, and the list goes on and on. If you dont fit the perfect mold, youre unworthy in the eyes of others. You know what I say? FUCK THAT! Absolutely NONE of that matters unless you give in to those ridiculously impossible standardsand most damning of all, see yourself as unworthy, like I once did.

Whatever your demon, its likely a perceived lack: of prettiness, money, education, love, fairness, or a million other ghosts. The pain from all you are lacking consumes you and before you know it, youre the shame - faced reflection staring back at you, wondering when shit will begin to turn around for you. Well, ladies: that moment is now. NOW is when we turn all that youre lacking into strengths you didnt know you had.

Much like the tide, our annual California vacations came and went, and so did time. Before I knew it, Id made it to freshman year of high school and I was desperate to keep up with my senior brothers legacy of being great at, well, pretty much everything. A diehard cheerleader since I could properly carry a pom - pom , I knew I needed to mix things up, so I signed up for the track and field teampole vault, specifically. Although Id never attempted a jump that wasnt associated with cheer, I couldnt pass up the opportunity to prove to myself that not only was I an athlete, but I was the kind whose name lives on in school record books.

The first time I saw that thirty - two - inch - thick mat, that excessively long pole, and that ridiculously high bar, I felt excited. Finally, a worthy challenge! I wasnt at all sure I could do it, but if I could, my family would surely discuss it around the dinner table that night! After the coachs brief overview, we lined up, and one by one took a running start toward our destinies. Who among us would leave the ground, launching herself gracefully over the bar, clearing it cleanly? Could it be me? As my turn inched ever closer, I pepped myself up. Perfection, Al. Nothing less.

My palms were clammy, my legs shaky, and beads of nervous sweat peppered my brow when the coach gave me the go - ahead . I ran, pole in hand, focused and strong. Planting the pole firmly in its socket, I gripped it tightly and arched my body skyward. Interminable seconds later, I landed on the soft mat, elated at not having touched the bar once. I didnt immediately realize that wasnt because Id cleared itbut because Id flung myself rather ungracefully under it. Standing up, I walked off the mat grinning ear to ear. Then I turned around and saw my teammates laughing (not necessarily at me, but with me). Thats when I realized my failure to launch. While I gamely chuckled along, a heat wave of anger, coupled with a heaping spoonful of embarrassment, grew just beneath my overly loud, insecurity - masking belly laugh.

Even then, I was skilled at converting embarrassment to anger, because anger was useful. It fueled me. Anger made me get up and try again. Anger drove me to refine my technique, to attack the bar with single - minded purpose, to elevate it to a symbol of perfection. There on a track in Tempe, Arizona, I arbitrarily created my very own bunch of impossible standardsthe bar that I set for myselfthe bar that I never did clear. It would haunt me for years to come, forever representing every goal I would name and inevitably not meet.