Self Discovery

In today’s media driven society, we are constantly confronted with constructed notions of what it is to be Beautiful. Technology has enabled re-touching and digitalisation to such a point that beauty, as defined by movie stars and models in magazines, is an almost impossible target for most women because it simply isn’t REAL. Yesterday I saw Dove’s latest marketing campaign, where they used the concept of “selfies” to help teenage girls and their mothers re-define their notions of beauty and it made me think about myself, and what I think beauty is.

I’m a 21 year old Australian woman with thick, long brown hair, hazel eyes, a slightly olive complexion and a face full of freckles. I happen to be quite content with how I look, but this wasn’t always the case. Even now I wouldn’t rush to call myself “beautiful”; But why not? I love to hear it from someone else as much as the next person, yet I seem to think that there is some taboo against thinking it of ourselves; as if this instantly makes us vain when in all honesty, thinking of ourselves as beautiful is one of the most empowering things we can do.

When I signed up for the Cascade Lakes Relay (a 216.6 mile race through central Oregon’s high desert) I was thrilled at the opportunity to experience the outdoors through an activity that I love. On the road I took in the picturesque landscapes, the expanse of trees, the crisp air, and the comfort of knowing that the noise and distractions of Portland were miles away.

At times throughout the course, CLR seems like any other race. As people run their legs, their teammates pass them and cheer from support vans, and I felt like I was part of a magnificent event. But when my own support van passed me in the middle of my legs, I was caught off guard by the unexpected solitude.

What is our obsession with badges? Girl Scouts. Letterman’s jackets. Credentials. Resumes.

I can admit, I’ve been one of those people. My life has been lived as a collection of what I’ve done and achieved…The proverbial trophy room. I grew up in a small town, raised goats and showed them at fairs. My parent’s home displays a shrine of sorts boasting all the ribbons and trophies I won over the years. Back then, it was my pride. Whenever I return to visit, I often reminisce at the colorful, shiny representation of my childhood.

For me, it meant something. It meant that I was worth something, that somehow the “win” meant I was good and that gave me value. A blue ribbon or bronzed plaque was validation. But now…What do I remember? I remember friends I made and bonding time I spent with my dad. It was how I learned responsibility, competitive spirit, follow-through, and putting my best face forward. I only realize this now in reflection.

I feel a little stupid, because it’s taken me nearly thirty years to realize a simple truth. I’ll never be a Major League Baseball player, a Premier League footballer, or an Olympic swimmer. Call me glum, sour, or bitter, but those are the facts.

No matter how much I put my mind to it, no matter how much I conceive and believe, no matter if I had the stubborn will power of a donkey, no matter if I put in my 10,000 hours of deliberate practice, it’s not happening. To believe otherwise wouldn’t make me a go-getter. It would make me delusional. Not all seven billion of the earth’s inhabitants can be elected President of the USA. Not all of the world’s hundreds of millions of blogs can be in the Technorati top 100. Not all of the USA’s 315 million citizens will join the ranks of its 424 billionaires (unless the dollar becomes severely devalued). That’s not doom-saying. It’s simple math.

We all have a limited time to live a remarkable life. Some people live for seconds, days, years, decades — but nobody is here forever. All of that seems very morbid — and it is — but there is a powerful motivator behind this concept, as well.

It’s this motivator that is keeping me focused. You can’t forget dying. It’ll make living that much better.

‘What’s for dinner?’ asked my youngest son. ‘I have no idea’, I replied. ‘I’m not that kind of Mum anymore’. Before you castigate me for being a bad mother, this youngest son is actually aged 19 and for a year lived away from home at College on another continent before he flew back to the nest!

Still, it did seem a bit strange even to me. Why had I gone from a stay-at-home Mom who played nurse, taxi, housekeeper, cook and Counsellor to ‘feeling’ almost completely disinterested in these roles?