Sometimes when I jog two miles in a row, I feel like I’ve done something incredibly virtuous and praiseworthy.
And sometimes when I finish a draft of a manuscript that takes much research and thought and prayer and struggle and tears and heartache, I feel like it’s silly to be proud of myself.
Sometimes I judge my (worst) self against everyone else’s (best) self.
And sometimes I give myself a big old break, remembering to speak to and about myself like I’d speak to and about someone I love. I eat all the ice cream and watch a season of whatever in about three days.
I think that someplace inside there, between those extremes, lies the ideal space for me. Where I can be proud of my accomplishments, big and small, without taking myself too seriously. Where I can hold myself to a meaningful, reasonable standard without feeling crushing disappointment.
My work right now is to uncover that space.