As much as my mind wants to reject it, I think I’m finally coming to realize that self-acceptance is not the indulgent thing I used to think it is. For so long I believed that to allow myself the freedom to just be whatever I am, warts and all, is to impose some sort of unwarranted egoism upon reality, as though I don’t deserve to like myself, and to even consider this is the most narcissistic, arrogant thing in the world. But reality, I suspect more and more, is seldom what it seems. In fact, it’s frequently the opposite. Self-acceptance, therefore, which at first feels unnatural, is actually the only true salvation in existence. It may take years to learn, and even longer to believe it, but I now know that no one can free me from my prison; only I can do it. And the key, which has been in my hand the whole time, is to just finally accept that this is who and what I am. I’m not perfect, but I’m not horrific, either.
I’m just me. And maybe that is perfectly okay.