You Are Not Special. You Are Loved.

This article is by Colette Eaton:

I was a big liar as a kid. I loved to tell fish stories and capture people’s attention as I rambled on about some near-death experience or a talent I clearly didn’t possess. At one point, I convinced my grade school friend group I was diabetic and had surgery to take out one of my kidneys. I am not sure why I felt the need to lie. I already had friends. But for some reason, I needed something else. I see now that I was seeking someone to affirm that I was special. My stories generated laughter and kindness, pushing away the ache of loneliness, worthlessness, and fear that haunted me. My fish stories made me feel special. I liked holding people’s attention and finding affirmation in their laughter. Even more, I found I could make myself feel special by simply telling a story. It was the most accessible way I knew to draw people closer and project a persona I desired to be. I didn’t want to be me. I wanted to be the funny diabetic who tells great stories and whose friends dote all over her.

This didn’t change when I met Jesus for the first time at summer camp in 1997. I had become addicted to seeking affirmation elsewhere and wasn’t sure how an ancient text was going to fill the void of worthlessness I felt. I, like many others, experienced the typical “camp high” and then subsequently failed miserably in the real world as a new Christian. I returned to my old vices within a few months. It was only a few years after my initial conversation that those vices started to fit a bit too snugly. My stories stopped bringing me the affirmation I desired. The stories began to get shorter and shorter, then eventually I would catch myself before telling a fish story and would settle to tell the true story. Eventually, the only stories that remained were the ones I told myself.

I soon discovered it was the lies I told myself that were the hardest ones to break.

It wasn’t until I encountered a youth group in my early high school years that the real me came out of her shell and began to see herself the way God saw her. This youth group was unique in that it was diverse in age, popularity status, and style of expression. We had everything from the jock on the football team to the goth who wore a long black jacket even in 80-degree weather. Everyone showed up just as they were and it was welcomed. This was my first true experience of a Christian community that actually looked like what I read in the Gospels. A ragtag group with soiled imperfections having dinner with Jesus. The need to lie to them felt almost absurd. Even more, the radical acceptance I found in Jesus diminished the need to lie to myself.

I am now 42 years old and though I have rarely struggled with the typical version of “people pleasing” (I could care less about what people think of me), I do care what I think about myself. The motivation to seek affirming ooh’s and ahh’s that storytelling created, brought a welcomed distraction, allowing me to forget for the moment the things I didn’t like about myself. The struggle with negative self-talk, I hate to say, still hasn’t magically disappeared in the name of Jesus. It actually got harder in the wake of adulthood, struggling with school, career, and marriage. I have goals I want to achieve but I often spend more time fantasizing about them than actually taking steps to achieve them.

It is then no surprise that I am a sucker for self-help, goal-orientated celebrities who have dance parties on stage and really cute branded notebooks sold at Target. A few years back, I picked up said notebook and began to write my affirmations:

I am a bestselling author.
I am in the best shape of my life.
I own an acre of land and a house for hosting.

Though none of these are true, the guru I followed suggested writing them as if they were true.

I have also purchased affirmations apps to help with my negative thoughts. Following the advice of less popular people who also seemed competent in offering advice.

I know that there are times when I become worried, angry, pressured, or sad and I accept what I feel as my inner truth at the moment.

I have the energy I need to accomplish my goals and to fulfill my desires.

I would like to say that none of these worked and it was scripture alone that pulled my soul out of the muck of negative self-talk but it wasn’t, at least not entirely. It was a combination of things, but mostly it was connecting with other real people.

Just as connection to my youth group in high school helped me to stop telling fish stories, it was connection, not affirmations, that began to bind up the wounds caused by the stories I told myself. Through friendship, my marriage, and in my counselor’s office as well as scripture, I began to uproot the stories that told me I was behind, a slow learner, a bad writer, and unwanted. The stories I told myself surfaced the moment I stopped telling those fish stories. It was as if I had to lie in order to keep myself from seeing what was really there. Fantasy is easier to embrace than reality — especially when we are in pain. But fantasy won’t hold your hand when you need a good cry.

We all want to feel special. The problem is … we aren’t all that special, not according to how the world defines it. Not many of us will be famous or rich or have a legacy that lasts for centuries. But there is one thing we are unmistakably: fully loved by God. If I could go back in time and interrupt myself in the middle of my kidney removal story, I would say to myself: you don’t need to prove you’re special — you are already loved. Honestly, I would probably laugh in my own face and continue my story but something would stick. A seedling of truth might have taken root. Perhaps it was there all along and it merely took a couple of decades for that seedling to shed its unnecessary shell in order to bear real fruit. We are far too impatient to be the people we desire to be. So we tell stories, disguising ourselves with words and healing our wounds with affirmations. But it takes time to shed our untrue stories and embrace reality. It takes courage to face our limitations and imperfections.

But it also takes courage to embrace the truth of our own belovedness, to give up the fight to be special, and instead rest in simply being loved. Though the story of Jesus can often feel like a fish story, it is the most real story there is, and letting this truth sink in will take a lifetime, not just a conversion. A story that softens the hard edges of our stories and welcomes us to a table to eat with other ragtag followers.