Freeing myself from my past

A few weeks before the end of 2020, I was working my day job when one of my coworkers asked what my New Years Resolution was. I told him, "I'm sick of resolutions. I'm sick of setting goals. There’s no point.” For years I'd hopped on the bandwagon and started each new year with a list of personal demands and the collective battle cry, "This is my year.” Each year, the inevitable failure of these unrealistic resolutions only made me feel worse. I’d never lost the 30 pounds, gone for a run every morning, or even kept my room clean. I'd officially accepted defeat.

2020 had derailed most of my plans and left me wanting nothing more than a steady income and a place to live. I'd dropped out of University, and had to shell out most of my savings to pay off student loans for a program that was no use to me anymore. I found out that my apartment was cockroach-infested, and my roommate was moving to Vancouver with less than a month’s notice.

There was no room in my mind frame for the big happy future I dreamed of every New Year’s Eve. This year, my goal was to survive.

Then, my seasonal job was done. I was unemployed once again and trying to de-roach all of my belongings before moving to a new home I could barely afford. I was alone, spending my days applying for jobs and rewatching Netflix shows I'd already seen dozens of times before. I felt lost. My coworkers’ question floated in my head, and a pressing question haunted me.

What now?

The life I had just months ago was stripped clean. I was left with all this empty space in my life without goals, direction, or even a source of productive, non-government-issued income.

I thought about some of the things I’d wanted to try before, and now had time to do. I could start a blog, a youtube channel, a podcast, or, (heaven forbid) a Tiktok. Something was holding me back from all of that, though.

What if people I know see it? What if people judge my life decisions?

I grew up with a narcissistic religious mother whose opinion of me declined at the same rate as my own feelings of self-worth. By the 7th grade, I was too petrified of social rejection to change my hairstyle or wear anything but jeans and a T-shirt. I had a hard time talking to most people and a hard time pushing myself to create things for fear of criticism. My mothers’ disapproval was a constant through my coming-of-age. If I showed a shoulder, I was slutty; if I spent too much time with my friends, I “clearly hated my family and wanted nothing to do with them.” She’d make comments about me just loud enough for me to hear, but never to my face. I listened to her tell my siblings how I was awful and mean and inconsiderate and shameful, and it chipped away at me. I’d never heard her say the words “I’m proud of you.” Not when I won my first writing contest, performed at my first singing recital, got a lead in the school musical, got published in the Edmonton Journal, or graduated from high school with honors with distinction. It was never enough.

I started to feel like being good enough was out of the question. I needed to settle for what I could get and be happy with it.

After leaving the church in the 11th grade, I realized the religious community I thought loved me would only support me if it were on their terms. Childhood friends stopped talking to me, youth leaders speculated I was a drug-ridden pregnant teenager, and warned the young women to steer clear of me and avoid making the same "mistakes" as me. Leading the battalion was my Mother, with her all-too-loud whispers about her disappointing daughter. Though I didn’t see them every day like before, they were everywhere. My Instagram. My Facebook. My Snapchat. I couldn't hide from their scorn. I knew they were watching and waiting for some clear evidence that I was beyond saving.

So I carefully moderated my social media not to show any signs that I was the devil-spawn they saw me as. My posts only featured modest clothing, clean language, and I avoided sharing stories with visible alcohol or even coffee. I was censoring myself for fear that I would be judged and ridiculed. I felt suffocated. At this rate, I was prepared to settle for whatever came my way and let real aspirations be a thing of the past. I’d given up on writing, on creating, and was living devoid of excitement for life.

As I sat alone with my thoughts at the beginning of 2021, I realized that my feelings of self-worth and my fear of judgment from my peers and my own family had held me back for long enough. I had been treading lightly, holding myself back from trying anything new and risky because of the black hole my strained past had formed inside me. I wanted to try new things, no matter how ridiculous and cringey they were. No matter how the church and my mom would spin the narrative. I wanted to stop caring about how people interpreted my actions. I wanted to try everything for the sake of trying everything.

My new goal was a simple one; Stop worrying about my preconceived notions of what I can and cannot do. Seize every opportunity.

For me, this means more than just trying new things. It means being my most authentic self regardless of who is watching. It means loving myself even though I’ve been told repeatedly that I’m not pretty enough to do so. It means embracing my flaws even though I’ve been told they make me “complicated.” It means accepting new challenges without giving a thought to who thinks I’m “embarrassing myself.”

It means finally breaking free from a community that made me feel trapped even after years of inactivity in the church—breaking free from my mothers’ grip on my self-worth.

It feels like a breath of fresh air. Somehow, in just thinking about releasing the burden of social pressure, I wrote again, and for the first time in 2 years, I wrote a story to completion. I’d been stuck in my head, feeling too worthless to do the things I love most.

Now, I am free.