Being Your Own Biggest Fan

Self-confidence is fleeting. It’s euphoric and yet can disintegrate at any moment. It’s like every day the tube of toothpaste is full and plentiful till one day it’s empty and you’re squeezing it against the counter for last drops.

Make one mistake and your words tremble. You instantly become self-conscious of your every motion and movement. You criticize the way you said something, the sound of your voice, the hand gestures you made. Your imperfections grow into monsters.

A slight hint that you’ve done one thing totally and unbelievably correct. A compliment, a smile, trace of validation. You sit a little taller and forget what your hands were doing or what you said three minutes ago. You begin to see things brighter and even you would like to hear what you have to say. You try on a shirt that looks phenomenal and costs only ten bucks. You read a heartfelt comment on your blog post. You are told you look nice when you thought you looked like crap. The dog at CVS shared an equally meaningful look with you.

But you apologize profusely and feel guilty and can’t explain why. You revisit the ugly parts of your day and dread when more will come.

Why is it so difficult to forgive yourself and treat yourself for what you are: a human being?

I excel in mistakes. I wish I could put it on LinkedIn. I would probably endorse myself. I’m notorious for jumping ahead, overthinking a simple thing, wording something incorrectly.

But the biggest debacle is myself. I don’t support myself.

I’m the first to criticize myself, the first to doubt my decision, the first to agree with someone who says I’m wrong or I should think about something differently.

One of my best friends recently said to me, “You are your own biggest critic, but you’re also your biggest fan.” She understands the continuous seesaw in my mind, the ever-present struggle of one fleeting moment of confidence instantly spiralling into disdain for my own actions.

I can try to be my own fan. Support myself. Love myself even when I know it’s not my best move, brightest day, wisest decision. Follow me like I gave into the Transformers franchise or dated Taylor Swift then had a total 180 and found Katy Perry. (These are hypotheticals but hopefully you understand this universal struggle.)

I’ll take an effort to be my own back-up, to step in when I’m too tired and too beaten down to stick up for myself.

There is a gap between total understanding and complete confusion, and straddling this space while transitioning into adulthood is messy and misleading. If I don’t hold my own hand once in a while, I might just lose grip. I might need a bit of guidance after all, and who better to lead me than myself.

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

Health, LifeTessa DukeMarch 21, 20171 Comment

Being Your Own Biggest Fan

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