Finding meaning and creation through cancer, adoption, and a series of seemingly unconnected strings of life events.

The me monster – perhaps all children fall into this category – and rightfully so as they are relying on basic survival instincts and empathy develops over time. They are learning their place in the world and sometimes that means being inherently selfish and fighting for our attention with endless “look at me” examples of their ability to hop on one foot or burp the alphabet. 

Adults don’t have that excuse. The world of social media has both glorified those who still need to scratch that itch and effectively shut out those of us who are fighting it.

That struggle is what’s kept me quiet in the online atmosphere for so many years.  I am, by nature, an over-sharer and an early adopter. I was a facebook user when a college email was required and only certain universities were allowed. I was well versed in instant messenger and chat rooms from my preteen years on our centralized family computer. I had a blog before it was called a blog, and I posted diligently.

I remember distinctly the day I stopped – an event and story that is not complete nor mine alone to share. I remember the fear and the realization that my over-sharing could have profound ramifications on my family, so I withdrew.

I felt ashamed for putting my family in that situation, and for thinking my life and my opinion were important enough to have a platform. I felt ashamed for looking for validation and fulfillment outside of my own circle and outside of myself.

The withdrawal was healthy. My husband and I were that weird couple who combined facebook accounts like old people who first start one – no affairs, just a realization that when you’re speaking for another person, you have to be careful what you post. I fought getting a smart phone and deleted the apps immediately upon arrival.

I fought to transform the me monster into an us monster – us being my direct family, community, and faith. On the surface, that seemed right – that’s what Evangelical Christian culture at the time told us to do and my angst to do everything correct was seeking nothing short of perfection.

But when you try to cut every selfish desire out of your life, you end up cutting out what makes you a unique human. When you squash the reason people love you to begin with, you turn into nothing but a repeater and accommodator. That’s where I find myself most days – struggling to meet everyone else’s needs, but failing to understand my own basic desires (Just ask me what I want for dinner, not what I think will make everyone else happy – I’ll burst into tears on the spot).

Last week, I pulled out the document of my life story that I’ve revised three times thus far. The last edits were saved in July of 2010, one month shy of getting the call about adopting my oldest son, and it hadn’t been opened since.

I far enjoyed reading about the circumstances in which I edited the manuscript rather than the story itself. That’s not because the story was boring – it’s because the story didn’t seem real at all. The memories and the reflections seemed so foreign – and some I vaguely recalled happening to begin with.

I’ve squished my me monster down so far that I’ve lost my story in the process.

Perhaps when I’ve been looking so hard to find my place in this world via family commitment, friendships, work, and volunteerism, I was really looking to find a relationship with myself again. I’ve forgotten how my story distinctly formed me and brought me to where I am today.

So here I am – 40 years old, joining Instagram, sharing myself, and trying to take the shame out of my me monster. It feels silly and contrite, but I’m cautiously jumping in because I feel a conviction to do so for others who may find hope, for my children to have a document of understanding, and for what writing and sharing allows me to process and discover for myself.