Lately I’ve been feeling proud.
Always I associated pride with selfishness. Confusing being proud with being conceited. But to be proud is to be self-aware, to have self-respect, to look at something you’ve worked hard to achieve and think, ‘yes I did that and my god am I pleased with how hard I worked for it’. So you know what? I am proud, I am proud of myself for feeling pride.
I pride myself on my kindness.
I pride myself on my hard work.
I pride myself on my courage.
The wall flower has grown out into the room and in the most divine colours. Colours that she painted for herself. She reached out into the world, with slow, timid hands, shaking at the slightest gust of wind that threatened to hinder her growth and she persisted. She pushed herself through the cracks in the pavement, battled diplomatically with brighter fuller blossoms for the sunlight, and she conquered her own self doubt, forgot about the tidy lawns and pruned hedges and instead grew in the wildest gardens. And I’m proud of her. Proud to be her.
Do you have any idea how fulfilling that feels?