And now I sit here writing, when I should be packing, because I am headed to another one.
I had this big, long post written in response to all of the questions I have received from people who were surprised to hear that I was leaving this week to head to another, albeit different, blog conference.
(For those of you who don't care to read blogs about blogging, no worries, that isn't what this is about.)
At first pass, I had this great post written about why in the world, after an emotionally jarring first round, I would consider possibly subjecting myself to this again. Thoughts about how the conference is different. And that I am different. And so on and on and on.
Blah blah blah.
Then I stopped and pushed down on the delete button for about 25 seconds and got rid of it all.
It was liberating to see the words disappear one at a time.
Because it was just a bunch of words. Filler really. I wasn't answering the real question.
Because the answer is this: I don't know.
I don't know why I am going. I mean I do, but I don't.
Here's the deal. The reason I had originally written with positive language and empowering feelings was probably out of fear. Because there is this thing out there. This passive aggressive, or sometimes just aggressive, thing. It comes from others. From fellow women. And it's magnified by ourselves. By myself. Sometimes we know the other people and sometimes we don't. They say you are woman hear you roar. Be true. Don't admit insecurities. Don't have insecurities. Be bold. Be confident. Screw the rest of them. You make your own destiny. You are amazing. Go show them.
Sometimes these messages are sent out of genuine empowerment. And sometimes they are not. They are said critically. Almost with a tone of "grow up and get over it."
I'd love to say that I left my days of insecurity and self-doubt behind when I was 14. But guess what? I didn't. And I'm willing to bet that some of the loudest voices... The ones who chide people for admitting our weaker moments. Our self doubts. Our insecurities. I am willing to be those people have it too.
I don't care if many men would never say these things out loud. (Which is often one of the criticisms I hear tossed around).
Are we, as women, as people, doing ourselves a disservice to refuse to allow ourselves to be real? To sometimes be fragile? To have soft spots?
I do. I think we as women hurt ourselves in saying that we don't. To say that we are so past all of that.
It's like that myth that you will never get another pimple after age 14. People tell us that little white lie to get us through the worst of it. But life is full of pimples.
So I am willing to bet that other people are still dealing with it, too. Even the ones who are the boldest. The loudest. The strongest.
Maybe they aren't.
But I am.
I often hear from people that when they first meet me, their first impression is that I am arrogant. Not sure why I come across that way, but I hope I can figure it out someday. Like before I die. Cause I'd hate to be known as the arrogant woman in the nursing home. Because I am not.
Sure, in the right setting, I have moments of confidence. I can lead a meeting. I can make a group of people laugh. I can speak in front of 15 or 100 to 1,000 people. And I can be a killer spokesperson, which, hell, I work in PR. I better be able to do that.
But I can also be that meek girl who had eggs thrown at her on the bus for a year growing up. The girl who never really had a group.
But that is an important part of me. Because it's a part of me that keeps me real. Humble. Sometimes overly so.
And let's face it. There is something amazing and horrifying about social media sometimes.
We make connections. We find others who are like us. Or we find people that we never would have "allowed" ourselves to connect with in real life, with whom we still find commonality and connectedness.
But we also see it all happening around us. We talk to people on Twitter who refuse to respond back (and no, I am not talking about celebrities, I'm talking about other moms. Other women. Other people.). We ask questions that go unanswered. We put things out there only to have them misunderstood. We see conversations happening around us.
Strangely enough, just as I was about to finish writing this, I saw this fly through my Twitter stream:
And here I had been rambling for an hour's worth of typing and she summed it up on a few words.
That is why I am going.
No. I am not perfect. Far from it. Again, moments of great confidence followed by moments of great insecurity.
And so I am going. Because, for the most part, I love this online world that I am a part of.
But sometimes, I don't.
And I am going because I am scared to.
That is good. That is me being strong.
