I know your self-esteem depends on how well you perform.
I know you feel a pressure to be on, to be invigorating and interesting and charismatic.
Is there any hope for you on this long, slope-filled road?
We are sitting in a synagogue in the Old City as Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, dawns upon us.
“Come here,” I call to you.
I put my hands on your shoulders (are they already drooping?). I look into your eyes.
“You are perfect just the way you are, you hear me? Even when you make mistakes, even when you could have done better, even if you have to try again, you are so, so perfect. Just the way you need to be… I want you to know that. To really believe that. Ok?”
And you look at me. Your eyes are knowing. Your face relaxes. For a moment, I trust you’ve heard me.
Behind you, through the window, I see the sun setting. Shadows fall on the walls. The leaves rustle. Night is coming.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
What happens when you, only you, define your self-worth?