The actual definition of failure is: oh shit. ugh. well, now I know.
I could end this letter here, because I don’t want to give you too much of my time, but in truth, I’ve given you most of my life. Because of the abuse I experienced from my father, the ridicule I experienced in middle school, all the times I got beat up/picked on/told I wasn’t worth anything, all the times I got dumped for saying “I love you” way too fast, I’ve spent my entire life trying to be a better version of a person no one seemed to think was good enough as is.
I’ve been a master people-pleaser. I’ve been the one who always steps up, not because I think I’m noble or whatever. But because I don’t get to just sit still and be. I always have to keep grinding. I have to keep moving. I have to keep proving that I’m the best one for the job. Any job.
But, I’m not. No one is good at everything, and if they are, their name is probably Donald Glover. But, that aint the point of this letter, tho, he too might struggle with you. Because, you suck, Perfection.
You’re the lie that keeps so many people trapped, depressed, anxious af.
I’m writing to remind you of this.
You’re the reason I feel like shit while writing this right now.
I’m worried about getting it all right:
- parenting my future child
- my wellness conference on Saturday – you got me all kinds of worried about that
- all the money – thousands – I’ve been putting into my business ventures
- calling myself a mental health speaker – what do I know??? (tell Doubt I’m coming for them too in a future letter)
- calling myself Oprah
- calling myself anything more than who others told me I am – nothing
- this email. this email is a fail. this email isn’t perfect. ugh.
So yeah, I’m worried. I’m worried about my marriage. My friendships. My Blackness. My business connects. And I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame myself. I’m over and beyond blame. I’m just tired of you. Tired of you sneaking up to me right when shit gets good. My life is so good right now.
But you had to come thru when I stepped on the scale the other day and saw that I was 10 lbs heavier. I lost 30lbs 3 years ago and kept it off, and because of this recent season, I’ve gained 10 back. 10! I feel like a fat boy. Fat and ugly. And I’m feeling okay about that.
So, in a way, you’ve won, Perfection.
But, you also lose every time any of us write to you, think about you in an honest way, and get real about our relationship with you. I want to stop hating you and resenting you and really just get clear on the relationship I want with you. You’re always gonna be here. I have way too much trauma to ever really get rid of you. I can’t avoid you. You’re in my DMs, my tv shows, my social media feed, my brain, my blood, my life, you’re in all of us. You show up to us all.
But, I’m the CEO. The captain of this mutha fuckin ship and I’m not going anywhere.
Writing this to you was so cathartic, that I’m a go and get even more messier as I reach for my goals. I have goals.
I’m gonna make the half a million dollars per year. I’m gonna lose the weight. I’m gonna be the father I never had. I’m gonna keep inspiring people and talking about things no one else is in my circles: sexual self-care, sex in general, racism, life as a black man who paints his toes, life as a black geek, life as someone who’s mentally ill, life as someone who is real.
And sure, I’ll revise and edit a few thousand times before I send things out, but I’m a still do it. I’m a figure this all out. But, I don’t have to figure out a damn thing today. That’s what you want me to think.
I get to rest. Imperfectly. Broken. Here. And, I’m not going anywhere.
Sinclair + Anyone struggling with your lies