Saturdays are for errands—basically all the stuff you didn’t have time (or motivation) to do during the week. So, Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed like a reluctant sloth, hopped into the shower, brushed the sleep tangles out of my hair, and did the whole teeth thing. I made a valiant attempt to look like I hadn’t just rolled out of bed—though honestly, the mirror and I both knew the truth.
I twisted my long hair up into some sort of organized chaos and clipped it out of the way. Then I threw on a frayed pair of jeans and a T-shirt that’s seen better days (possibly decades). Let’s just say if there were a fashion police unit for grocery stores, I would’ve been gently escorted out with a complimentary pamphlet on “Trying a Little Harder.” But hey, I was going for functional, not fabulous.
Self-esteem and I have had a strained relationship for most of my life. I’ve been working on it, but it’s a slow process. My mother’s voice still echoes in my head, warning me that confidence is the same as arrogance—that believing in yourself somehow makes you full of yourself. I was also reminded, more times than I care to count, that no one would ever be interested in someone who looked like me.
So now, as an adult, when someone stares at me for a beat too long, I instantly go into panic mode. I want to melt into the floor or hide behind the nearest pyramid of canned tomatoes.
But lately, I’ve started cleaning house—not just my closet, but my people. I’ve been purging the ones who drain me, and making space for those who lift me up. People who are kind. People I’m learning to trust.
For almost six months now, I’ve had a friend who’s done just that. We’re not in a relationship—I’m not there yet—but there’s potential. He tells me I’m gorgeous every day, even when my hair looks like I’ve been electrocuted mid-dream. He says I’m smart, kind, and funny. He gives me so many compliments that my brain doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Because, seriously—how could anyone see me that way? But he keeps showing up, keeps gently repeating it until the words start to stick in tiny, almost imperceptible ways.
Which brings me to today. There I was, in my Saturday finest (read: disheveled), wandering the grocery store, when I noticed a man looking at me. Not in a creepy, “do-you-know-where-the-pineapple-is” kind of way. More like a quiet, curious kind of noticing. I moved to another aisle to escape the awkwardness, but we crossed paths again. And again.
He wasn’t following me—it was just one of those weird grocery store pinball situations—but every time, there was that look. And for a brief, flickering moment, a thought crossed my mind that felt completely foreign:
What if… I am attractive?
What if I’m actually—dare I say—gorgeous, like my friend says? What if all those things I’ve believed about myself for decades aren’t the whole story?
I’m 63. And somehow, today in aisle six, it hit me for the very first time that maybe I’ve been wrong about myself. Maybe the voice in my head wasn’t the truth. Maybe I’ve just needed the right people around me to help me rewrite that script.
I guess surrounding myself with positivity is starting to work its magic. And honestly? It feels kind of amazing.
Molly's Not-So-Secret Diary 