It’s funny to say that, since I’ve written a memoir and that’s all about me. I obviously think about myself quite often, and value my perspective enough to write it down and find a way to have it published.
But it’s not all about me.
Other people’s stuff? That’s not about me. Their bad moods, insecurities, tempers, lack of satisfaction, bad situations – they’re all not about me.
I learned to take everything on as a child, and to take everything personally. If it was all about me, then I could do something about it. If it was all about me, then I could fix it. I could change it. I could make “them” happier. I could make it safer and surer for myself.
But it wasn’t about me. And it often still isn’t.
Oh, I really do try and own my own stuff, and take responsibility for my part in things. But I’ve had a habit of taking too much responsibility and owning things that weren’t mine to own. When you believe you “could” make things better, you believe you “should” make things better. And “should” is a bad word and a slippery slope to be on.
And so I keep remembering that it’s not about me.
I am not the center of the universe – good or bad. I am not the one in charge of everything and at fault for everything. I don’t have to change things, or change myself, to make someone happier. It’s not my job.
I work to remember, to remind myself, that my responsibility begins and ends with me. I may want to help others. (I do.) I may go out of my way to help others. (I often do.) I may approach my life and the world with as much love and joy and compassion as I can, and give what I can to bring more light and love to all those around me. I strive to do that.
But all the s—t that I use to take on? It’s just not about me.
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