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What a fantastic outfit. The calf hair (?) boots are an adventurous addition and it paid off.
4 August 2014I am 33 years old today. And I am happy. And I say that so plainly because, well…it takes time. To be happy. To figure out how to be kind to yourself. To not just choose that happiness, but to feel it. My 20s were brutal – a constant battle with myself, judging my weight, my style, my desire to be as cool/as hip/as smart/as “whatever” as everyone else. My teens were even worse – grappling with how to fit in, and what that even meant. My high school had cliques: the black girls and white girls, the Filipino and the Latina girls. Being biracial, I fell somewhere in between. So everyday during lunch, I busied myself with meetings – French club, student body, whatever one could possibly do between noon and 1pm- I was there. Not so that I was more involved, but so that I wouldn’t have to eat alone.
I must have been about 24 when a casting director looked at me during an audition and said “You need to know that you’re enough. Less makeup, more Meghan.”
You need to know that you’re enough. A mantra that has now engrained itself so deeply within me that not a day goes by without hearing it chime in my head. That five pounds lost won’t make you happier, that more makeup won’t make you prettier, that the now iconic saying from Jerry Maguire -”You complete me” – frankly, isn’t true. You are complete with or without a partner. You are enough just as you are.
So for my birthday, here’s what I would like as a gift: I want you to be kind to yourself. I want you to challenge yourself. I want you to stop gossiping, to try a food that scares you, to buy a coffee for someone just because, to tell someone you love them…and then to tell yourself right back. I want you to find your happiness.
I did. And it’s never felt so good.
I am enough.
Draw your own box. White. Black. Hispanic. Asian/Pacific Islander.
Those were the only four options available for me to check as my ethnicity in my 7th grade English class. Choose one. It was some sort of mandatory census that had to be completed before an exam, and there I was (my curly hair, my freckled face, my pale skin, my mixed race) looking down at these boxes, not wanting to mess up, but not knowing what to do. Not knowing which box I fit in to.
I remember going home that night and telling my dad what happened, recounting how my teacher said to just “choose one” — that despite my being biracial, that I should simply choose one box and be done with it. And in one of those parenting moments that no guidebook could ever prep you for, my dad said words that will stay with me forever: “Draw your own box.”