I Am A Work In Progress

I have had this post sitting in draft form for years.

At the time, I wrote it in my early fifties trying to make peace with myself and a clear remedy for nagging insecurities. Now, as I turn sixty, I find myself returning to it with a little more tenderness, a little more honesty, and maybe a little less need to sound certain.

A lot of us battle self-doubt. Some of us battle something deeper and sharper than doubt. Self-criticism. Shame. The quiet, relentless voice that says we are behind, too much, not enough, too sensitive, too flawed, too late.

For much of my life, I thought the goal was to finally defeat that voice. To become confident enough, spiritual enough, successful enough, disciplined enough, healed enough that self-doubt would simply disappear.

I don’t fully believe that anymore.

What I am learning is that the problem is not always that these feelings arise.

Fear arises.

Doubt arises.

Old stories arise.

The mind compares. The body remembers. The heart protects itself in ways that may no longer be necessary, but once made perfect sense.

The deeper question is whether I let those feelings take the seat of authority.

Do I let self-doubt decide what I am allowed to try?

Do I let shame determine how much love I am worthy of receiving?

Do I let fear become the narrator of my life?

At sixty, I can say with more honesty than drama: I am a work in progress.

Not as a confession. Not as an apology. Not as a way of lowering expectations before someone else can.

I am a work in progress because I am alive.

I am still learning how to love the parts of myself I spent years trying to outrun. I am still learning how to befriend the body I have relentlessly criticized. I am still learning how to soften around my sensitivity instead of treating it as something to hide or overcome. I am still learning that being imperfect does not disqualify me from peace, from joy, from intimacy, from belonging.

There was a time when I thought self-love meant waking up one day and finally feeling wonderful about myself all the time. Now I think self-love is often much quieter than that.

Sometimes self-love is telling the truth.

Sometimes it is resting before collapse.

Sometimes it is asking for help.

Sometimes it is admitting that the old way no longer works.

Sometimes it is putting down the performance of being okay.

Sometimes it is looking in the mirror and not turning away.

Sometimes it is saying, “This also belongs,” even when the “this” is fear, grief, regret, loneliness, aging, or uncertainty.

In Buddhist practice, the invitation is to see clearly. Not to decorate reality. Not to shame ourselves into improvement. Not to pretend we have transcended our human tenderness. Just to see clearly, and to meet what we see with compassion.

That has become a very different kind of work for me.

Less fixing.

More witnessing.

Less pretending.

More allowing.

Less trying to become someone else.

More learning how to inhabit the life that is actually mine.

When I first wrote this, I said I battled doubt, fear, and self-loathing on a pretty regular basis. That was true then. Some days, it is still true now. But I relate to those battles differently. I am less interested in winning a war against myself. I don’t want my life to be organized around inner violence, even in the name of healing.

I want to practice another way.

A way of being firm without being cruel.

Honest without being punishing.

Accountable without being ashamed.

Open without abandoning myself.

Now at sixty, I am not interested in pretending that I have figured everything out. In fact, one of the gifts of this age is realizing how exhausting that performance has been. I have spent too much of my life trying to appear certain, polished, capable, spiritual, composed.

Now I am more interested in being real.

Real is not always tidy.

Real is not always inspirational.

Real is sometimes tired. Sometimes tender. Sometimes embarrassed. Sometimes brave in ways no one else can see.

But real is where love can finally enter.

So maybe this is my birthday note to myself, and maybe it is also an invitation to anyone who needs it:

You don’t have to wait until you are fully healed to begin loving yourself.

You don’t have to become someone else to be worthy of care.

You don’t have to erase your imperfections to belong to this world.

You can be unfinished and still be beautiful.

You can be learning and still be wise.

You can be afraid and still be brave.

You can be a work in progress and still be whole.

As I turn sixty, I do not want to measure my life only by what I have achieved, repaired, overcome, or become.

I want to measure it by how much more honestly I can meet myself.

How much more gently I can speak to myself.

How much more freely I can love without auditioning for worthiness.

I am not finished.

Thank goodness.

Or grace.

Or practice.

Or whatever name we give to the mercy of still being allowed to begin again.