Self-Worth

I had an interesting conversation with some friends the other day. We were talking about self-worth. About realizing what you are capable of, and acknowledging it. That's not something I have really done in the past—you know, acknowledging what I was good at. Growing up, there was a name for that. It was called conceit.

According to the dictionary, conceit is “an excessively favorable opinion of one's own ability, importance, wit, etc.” There were people like that all—I knew a lot of them—and I didn’t want to become one of them. Someone who always thought they could do anything. Always thinking they were better than anyone else. They were considered obnoxious, stuck-up, and not fun to be around.

But there were people who really could do anything they set out to do. Some of them made sure everyone around knew it. Braggers.  But others just quietly accomplished things. Really big things. They just didn’t tell anyone. Well, they didn’t brag, but they didn’t try to hide their accomplishments, either. They knew their self-worth, and valued themselves.

I ended up trying to be humble as I grew up. But in reality, I just didn’t try. Somehow, in my warped little mind, if I thought I might be good at something, I was being conceited. So, I just didn’t try. Play the guitar? I always wanted to. As a matter of fact, I took lessons. But I gave it up. Same with the piano, the flute, and the accordion. Dance? I tried. This one I really wasn’t good at, so I quit. Thankfully. My partner’s toes may have had time to heal by now . . . it’s been over thirty years.

Over the years, I’ve realized it’s okay to realize you’re good at something. I’m good at teaching. I did it for years at work . . . lost track of how many people I worked with, teaching them how to be successful at their jobs. I’m good at giving hugs. To my own children when they were little, and needed a snuggle with Mom. And now, to grandchildren, who love to sit on Grandma’s lap. I’m good at cooking—well, sometimes. And I’m good at the crafts I’ve finally chosen.

But writing. Hmmm—not sure about that one. When I was in high school, I won an essay contest that my English teacher coerced me into entering. (Funny story about that—maybe another time.) First place in the district, out of thirty or so students. I didn’t even place in region, when there were only five of us. Writing was something I enjoyed, something I thought I was good at. Something that, given the time to study and practice, I thought I really could do. But I didn’t pursue it.

Until now.

Still not so sure, but this last year I've had the chance to do just that. Study, practice, and work at it. What a learning, growing experience. I want to call myself a writer. I don’t know if I deserve that title yet, but I’ll take it anyway. Notice I didn’t call myself an author, because I don't have anything published. Yet. But I’m trying to realize, and accept, that I can write.

Or maybe I’m just conceited.