Learning to Love Myself

A personal essay by JC Eastwood


Transforming my self-loathing into something more.

Nineteen. Nineteen minutes to run a mile and a half. 

Exhausted and wheezing, I paused to rest near a tree as even the girls passed me by. A poor attempt to pretend re-tying my shoes fooled no one. Embarrassed, my little grey plastic inhaler remained in my pocket and when I returned home, I remained in my room. That day, I was not only embarrassed; I was embarrassing.

My parents couldn’t know about my pitiful track time. My father was the famous local basketball coach and my mother, a former swim instructor. Being an athlete wasn’t forced upon me, but it was expected. It was in my blood. It was in my DNA. But, it was not me. I was me. Criminally undersized, fitfully clumsy, and physically handicapped. Even as a fifth grader, I understood that I was just…me.

What's Left of My High School Crush

A personal essay by Kevin Dorman

She taught me to love, but I stopped loving her back.

The high resolution image couldn’t possibly capture, nor could it contain, her transcendent character; yet, in the first instant of exposure, I perceived passion, courage, and a winning mentality—this girl was designed for greatness. My intense glance caramelized into a solid stare, fixating my enchanted eyes on the flickering monitor screen, maybe for a whole ten minutes. I wasn’t merely attracted to her; I was enraptured by her, smitten, felled. Felled by this flawless Facebook photo. More like an advertisement, really.

That sacred Saturday afternoon, nestled in the eons of eternity, marked the first time I succumbed to love.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

A personal essay by Nina Anderson

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be exactly like my mom.

It was 6pm, closing time. It was already dark because that’s how life goes when it’s winter in Minnesota. Donna had left for the day so I needed to lock up the shop. I looked out the front window and saw Mom waiting in the Ford Focus. Right on time. I slipped on my coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and flicked off all the light switches. Mom crochets these beautiful mittens and matching scarves out of wool that keep us nice and warm.

The bells twinkled against the door as it shut behind me. The lock on the door requires some practice and often the patience of Job. The key is really small, so I had to expose my hands to the frigid air for a minute. You have to turn they key quickly and hold the door in exactly the right spot for the bolt to slide into place. 

18

A personal essay by Annie Thompson

 To the Chinese it is yāo bā, to the Jewish it is chaí, to the Hindi it is Jaya. To me, it is free.  

As a teenager, I knew everything. My eyes often rolled at well-meaning, meddling parents. Sometimes I wished they didn't care quite so much, didn't still see me as a child. Dying for freedom from supervision and rules, I daydreamed about turning 18. Graduating from high school. Moving to Utah for college. Escaping. I longed for those independent days while I argued with siblings about bathroom turns, while I grudgingly completed chores, while I sat in class, bored out of my mind. I didn't know what adulting would be, what it would mean. To me, 18 was total freedom; complete independence. Until it happened. Until I was sitting alone in a cold apartment that I didn't have money to pay for. And I realized I was still a child.