“So what brings you here?”
I’ve gotten that question all night. I’m at a swinger party, hardly anyone knows anyone. I’ve stumbled on one or two friends, but that was complete random happenstance. I have no idea where they are now, and my partner has yet to arrive. So I’m speaking with some women in the courtyard.
“I had a booth in the vendors’ room,” I say, “I wrote a book.” I say this with a slight shrug, like it’s not a big deal– and that’s when I’m interrupted by a woman sitting next to me.
“You’re an author,” she corrects.
“You didn’t just ‘write a book.’ You wrote it, and you put it out there, and now you’re out here selling it.”
She’s right, too. She doesn’t know me, but she hears my uncertainty. I have done an awesome thing. Why can’t I acknowledge this to myself?
We need to own our accomplishments, our identities.
Not only as women or femme presenting folk (men can be insecure, too), but as someone worthy. Sometimes we need to stop describing ourselves, and simply state, “I am X. Be yourself, and be that self proudly.
I am a mom.
I do not just ‘help raise my munchkins.’
I am an author and blog writer.
I didn’t just ‘write a book.’
I am the CEO and co-founder of my company.
I don’t just ‘do projects.’
For me, it’s even more fundamental. Putting it out there, publishing, selling, are not, for me, required to be a writer/author. I am a writer. Because I write.
I am a husband…and a wife.
I am a small business owner and entrepreneur.
I am loved.
Publishing is the important part. Allowing others to see what you’ve made. The money that comes afterwards is -usually- just a nice perk. Unless it’s your livelihood, of course!