We raced around the library, lap after lap, avoiding the few students left in the school. The halls were wide, the library in the center of the school forming a big square track for us.

My freshman feet pounded the linoleum. Each lap somehow harder and easier than the last. Lap 6. 7. Maybe I can get to 10.

But the truth in my brain was a different truth. It was the truth of how I saw myself. Share on X

“We’re getting lapped by Drew!” Jason exclaimed. The horror that his fat friend might be better.

Of course I won. I would go on to play on the team all four years. Jason and his friends didn’t last one whole season.

We Didn’t Know Each Other. Or Ourselves.

It’s funny how these words about “getting lapped” remain with me. We were freshmen. I was all of 13. So long ago.

They lit a fire. I strove to win. I proved his arrogance.

They also revealed how I feared others saw me: Fat. Slow. Imperfect.

And no matter how much the truth revealed itself, I couldn’t shake that sense of the truth I perceived.

He didn’t know me. We weren’t even good friends. I went to his house once in grade school and he showed me that scene from European Vacation where the woman opens her top. It was naughty.

We didn’t know one another. We grew up in relative proximity. That’s all.

But the truth in my brain was a different truth. It was the truth of how I saw myself. And the fear that others saw me that way too.

Not just fat. But not good enough.

Deception.

I looked at pictures of myself from a couple years later when I was 15 or 16. And for the first time, I think I actually saw myself.

Yeah, I do have kind of a big nose. But it was my body. I was actually pretty fit. Not strong. Kind of skinny. The kind of thing three hours of daily tennis does to you.

It made me rethink how I’ve always seen myself. That maybe I was wrong.

Underestimated.

When Jason underestimated me, it didn’t surprise me. He was naming what I thought of myself. In some ways, I was just as surprised as he was that I lapped them. Twice.

I underestimated myself. Over and over. In tennis and body image. In intellect and courage. I underestimated what I could do because I grew up in a small town and was easily distracted. Because there was always something or someone outdoing me.

When I finished in the top 10 of my class, I looked at the 7 ahead of me.

It didn’t light a fire. It confirmed my underestimations. I wasn’t #1 material.

Shame Remains.

I should finish Brene Brown’s book. I should read more. I should get more done. I should hustle. I should be more productive. I should get organized. I should be more concerned. I should be more involved. I should be a better parent. I should have my stuff together already. I should make a real difference. I should include a call to action in every sermon. I should get the people on the edges more involved. I should communicate better with everyone. I should make more of every experience. I should live in the moment. I should plan for the future. I should be more responsible with money. I should save for retirement. I should cut up the credit cards. I should watch less TV, even though I’m down to about an hour. I should be more concerned with tragedies in other countries. I should worry about the environment. I should drink less caffeine. I should have more fun with my kids. I should discipline them more. I should cut them a break. I should make more time for me. I should keep Sabbath holy. I should pray more. I should be a better disciple. I should make my life an example of living like Jesus. I should be holier than I am. I shouldn’t swear. I shouldn’t get pissed at my neighbors. I shouldn’t complain. I shouldn’t yell.  I shouldn’t stay up so late. I shouldn’t grow out my beard. I shouldn’t challenge people so much. I shouldn’t care what people think of me. I shouldn’t eat out. I shouldn’t make decisions when I’m hungry. I shouldn’t put my needs in front of others. I shouldn’t put others’ needs in front of mine. I shouldn’t be so sedentary. I shouldn’t only preach, but act more. I shouldn’t judge. I shouldn’t give up. I shouldn’t beat myself up. I shouldn’t compare myself to others. I shouldn’t be so negative. I shouldn’t lie to myself. I shouldn’t be a burden or a stumbling block. I shouldn’t use the word should all the time.

Two Decades.

It took more than two decades to see myself. That’s what blew my mind. Over 20 years. I let those teasings in school, the insane comments of pubescent narcissists, determine the trajectory of my life.

The jackass who said “why can’t you be more like your sister?” The one who barely knew my sister. When I told her what he had said, I should have heard her response for what it was:

“He’s one to talk.”

The 28 (out of 350) students who actually voted in the senior polls; naming me “Most Likely to Complain”. My better angels have always reminded me that I also complained a lot about injustice and the world’s brokenness.

Twenty years I lied to myself. Humiliated myself. Shrank myself because of all the outsized expectations of others and the pettiness of their own demons.

Twenty years I was unable to see myself for who I really was. Not the distortion filtered through our self-loathing.

Twenty years to actually remove the green-colored glasses of shame and abuse.

How long we lie to ourselves.

We Are.

We aren’t failures or screw-ups. We aren’t what others see. We are strong. We are fast. We are graceful. We are smart. We are singers. We are lovers. We are gentle. We are thoughtful. We are imaginative and creative and artistic and we will create a great opus or pithy poetry. We are warrior princesses and thoughtful theologians and we have wisdom the world cannot see and strength the world cannot destroy.

It is never too late to become alive.
It is never too late to rise.
It is never too late to live.

I’m not lying to myself anymore.

And I’m not encouraging your lies, either.