​63. An Imperfect Little Space

I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.

And this bothers the absolute dog snot out of me.

As a “former” people pleasing perfectionist, it really grinds my gears. I mean I’m small and unassuming and read at a college level in first grade.

What’s not to like?

Fine. Be that way.

I get it. I’m not a girl’s girl. I think it’s just for the first time in my life I’m living honestly. I used to look the part. Make up, hair, nails, rocking those Seven jeans. My engagement ring was the size of some people’s skulls.

I played the part, and it broke me.

And now? I’ve gotten face-to-face with Jesus. I can feel his breath. “Who are you, Ericka Clay? Are you who they say you are? Or are you who I say you are?”

Oh, Lord. You know my answer.

So now it’s grown out roots and untrimmed cuticles. It’s gray sweatshirts with a tiny mustard stain on the right sleeve. It’s knowing all those years of depression and anxiety and suicidal thoughts are all gravy baby. Because it took a whole lot of split lips and barked knuckles to get here.

And “here” is an imperfect little space where nobody’s pleased, and dang if I ain’t smiling anyway.

Hi, I’m Ericka. It’s nice to meet you.