You spend years working on the protagonist you’ve created, trying to make her a real person. And when you finally do she’s imperfect.

And that’s perfect. That’s real.

She’s deeply flawed and knows it. Hers was not a childhood that, despite its material comforts, leads to the notion of intrinsic self-worth. She was not abused or abandoned, but she was not disabused or met. She’s made mistakes – enormous, regrettable ones – and she’s learned from them all, though sometimes she learned the lessons much too late to right her wrongs.

But she’s determined to keep moving forward no matter how easily she can get mired in the past. She knows very few things for certain about herself but she does know that she has a surplus of love and needs somewhere to put it. She knows she is inherently good despite vast evidence to the contrary. She has an unusually high tolerance for sadness, and a questionably healthy capacity to see past the bad in hopes of finding the good.

She is rudderless, unmoored, in a holding pattern, operating without a net, etcetera. And she detests cliches like those above. She can be horrible, absolutely horrible. She can also be wonderful beyond words.

A lot of people see her, really see her, and see her worth. She hears this often. Every now and then someone tells her she’s worthless. And those are the voices that speak the loudest to her.

/end metaphor

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