For most of my life I have looked towards others to give me worth. I’m not talking about simple feedback to say you’re doing a good job. I mean the words that give you something in your soul to hang onto when you think quite frankly you are a piece of shit.

For literal decades my cry was to have someone show me that I was good enough. To have them be proud of me. To show me that I carry worth as a human. That main someone was TBU (the birthing unit) and I spent years trying win her approval and make her proud. It took until the last few years to realize that wasn’t happening and even more importantly, I don’t need that.

Historically, my family has defined who I am and they have their lenses that they see me through. That’s ok, because to an extent I see them the same way. We don’t really know each other. I guess the difference is that I know I don’t know them.

To them, the equation Karen equals is probably limited. Stubborn. Too loud. Not serious enough. Fat. Handicapped. Unrealistic. Immature. The only kind of correctly positive thing they would all agree on is that I march to the beat of my own drummer. I started out that way, I tried to follow other’s beats, and I’ve finally returned to listening to my own drum.

Between lifting and going to camp. little tidbits are coming out here and there about what I’m supposed to do, act, think and expect. Most of that has been wrong. Not just a little wrong, a giant assumption wrong.

And that’s ok.

While I have little pieces of me that would like to say “here’s who I really am!” I’m more comfortable having the real me known by people who love, cherish, support and appreciate me. The same way I get to give back unconditionally to them.

The amazing and peaceful part of this all is that I finally don’t feel like I need anyone to validate me. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy, appreciate and honor positive feedback. It means that is just added proof of what I already know. I am enough. I am a good person. I am valuable. I make a difference.

Most important to know is I am loved. By me. As I am. Perfectly imperfect. Riding high or crashing and burning. I love all versions. The version that can lift like a beast and the version that is scared to take a walk outside. The version that gets overly emotional and excited. The version that blurts out things that might not be the most appropriate but are sometimes damn funny.

When I told my bestie that I was so blessed with my chosen family, she made a point of making sure that I knew it wasn’t just me doing the choosing. They chose me too.

They chose me too.

I don’t need validation anymore, because I am chosen.