Most people feel ashamed about something from their past. How we deal with shame significantly effects our self esteem.

Bullying and effect on childrens' self esteem

Head Lice

Self esteem story about a school girl with head lice and resulting bullying and insecurities

As much as I hate to admit it, my self-esteem has largely been based on the views of others for far too long. For most of my grade school life, I was blind to those that looked down on me. While I didn’t come from a wealthy family, and I was far from stylish, I never felt as if I was below anyone else. That is, until the fourth grade and my school’s first monthly head lice check.

A school volunteer sat me down and ran a metal comb through my hair, checking every inch of my head. It was discovered my hair was contaminated with lice. I was shocked. I had only known of my siblings having it twice before but the details were never explained to me. I was horrified to discover that it meant that there were bugs living on my head! They sent me to the nurse’s office until they had finished with my class. After that, I was marched back to my classroom, walked past all of those knowing, judging young eyes, to collect my belongings. Then I had to wait in the office until my mother came to collect me. One incident was bad enough, but, as a girl with four sisters, all possessing a ton of stuffed animals, bedspreads, shared hair-brushes, and 90s style scrunchies, it was hard to contain. My neighbour, and best friend at the time, also had an issue with it, and we could not seem to put this problem to a definitive end.

I became known as “Lice Head” or “That dirty girl” at school. Kids are so creative, right? Many former close friends began avoiding me, and socializing with me became something that only the brave would attempt. The mothers of the other girl scouts in my troop voted to kick me out, because they didn’t want to expose their pretty, precious flowers to this filthy (ahem… innocent, young, friendly, sensitive, and kind…) young child.

There was a group of “mean girls” who rode my bus and got on right before me. They made sure to take up every last available seat, and occupy the free spot beside them with their backpacks. They knew that I would never ask to sit with my tormentors, so I stood. The bus driver would then yell at me to take a seat; my bus ride to school was hell. In class, my fifth grade teacher would make subtle, awful comments to me that made the rest of the class giggle. I lost all enthusiasm for school within months. I ended fifth grade with only one passing mark, art.

The beginning of middle school was better and I started to think that I could let go of these issues that I had been struggling with. A bigger campus, kids from other elementary schools coming together, new opportunities. I was excited to see some faces that weren’t aware of my previous reputation. I went basically unnoticed, which was a vast improvement, and made a few new friends.

All was fine until summer break before my seventh grade year. I got a call from the new, popular girl informing me that my best friends, with whom I had been close to since early elementary, no longer wanted to hang around me. The reason for this? I wasn’t cool enough, and they wanted to be accepted by the cool crowd. This completely crushed me. We had always done everything together. We practically lived at each other’s homes, and they felt almost like family to me. It was almost as if I was losing an extension of myself. I felt lost.

The following school year, my reputation came back in full force. Though it had been a couple of years since my last outbreak of head lice, that did not stop people from finding out and making assumptions. Amazingly, it was even more intense having a large group of pre-teen girls yelling things at me in the halls in front of everyone else, than it is having them quietly smirk, name call, and manipulate your shame as they did when I was younger. These girls were out for blood.
I spent the rest of that year watching my former best friends ignore me from afar. I became closer with a couple of other friends, and even got my first real boyfriend. I still felt weirdly alone though.

The next year, it all changed. I gained my old friends back after they realized that being “popular” was not all that it was made out to be. I made a few more great friends, and along with a few of my older friends, formed a ‘defensive barrier’. We stopped showing that we cared and, instead, played to their mocking. I adopted a gothic look, black lipstick and raccoon eyes. I started doing weird things like eating glue when I knew people were watching, drinking out of a baby bottle, and drawing graphic pictures in class. If anyone would tell me I was a “freak”, or other such insult, I would respond with “I know, right? I’m crazy!” and then just stare at them, creep style. People stopped teasing me, because it stopped being fun. I was no longer upset by it, but amused instead.

Of course, this was all a big facade. Sure, it was fun, but I was masking the fact that I was still plagued with insecurity. This continued on into my sophomore year of high school. I grew tired of pretending, and I began dressing a bit more conservatively, though I still tended to favor the dark and mysterious, I kept it much more modest than before. After years of pretending not to care, somewhere along the line, I really had become desensitized. People may or may not have continued to say things about me, but I honestly did not worry enough to notice anymore. I guess what I took out of this, is that people can only break you down if you allow them to. Do not let anyone make you feel as though you are less than them, because you aren’t. You have just as much to offer. Enjoy yourself and have fun, despite the way others may view you.

I continue to struggle with my self-esteem from time to time, as do we all. I just try to remember that no one is perfect, and no one has to be.

homosexuality and self esteem

How We Learned to Love Me

Self esteem story about a boy coming out of the closet and fighting for his parents acceptance

My first attempt at coming out of the closet was traumatic. My mother overheard me talking on the phone with a guy and told my dad about it. That night, my parents made one of my biggest life decisions: I was not going to be gay. I wrote my dad a letter to help him understand. He ripped it up and said, “Let’s forget about this and pretend it never happened”. From that moment on, I fought the most important battle of my life; my fight for self-acceptance; my war against depression.

In retrospect, I am sure my parents always knew about my orientation from a young age. I remember they took me to therapy when I was about 8 years old. However, the psychologist looked obviously gay, so that only lasted a couple of sessions. Also, I recall having blood tests every now and then for apparently no reason. I’ve since learned these were hormone tests, which my parents and doctor ordered in an attempt to figure out what was going on with me even before I had any clue I was ‘different’.

And me? Well, by the time it hit me, I was already a very awkward and very sad 12-year-old boy. My years in middle school were surrounded by constant bullying because of, well … a lot of things. My skin, my weight, my awkwardness, and, starting in tenth grade, my sexual orientation.

In response, I ate. I could spend a whole day eating because food was comforting and made me feel better. I was judged for being fat. So I felt worse and ate more. I hated being fat, but I didn’t see an alternative way to protect myself. Food gave me comfort, a form of love and acceptance; I found shelter in it.

My parents tried everything they could to help me with my ‘problem’. They tried to change the way I dressed, the music I liked and the people I hung out with. They transferred me to a private school just to be away from a couple of gay kids at my old school.

During this time, I developed my first boyhood crush. I fell for an older guy, who lived a few doors down. I don’t know if he noticed, but I think it’s hard for a boy to hide his infatuation when you’re just entering puberty. I never told anyone about my feelings. As it happened, as fast as I fell in, I fell out of love with him. Even though I realized I was attracted to a man, the thought of being gay never crossed my mind. Maybe it was because I didn’t know any gay people to that point, or at least I didn’t pay that much attention to them.

Growing up in the 90’s in rural Mexico, a gay man was pretty much a stereotype and I didn’t really identify with that—I still don’t. My parents, on the other hand, saw these flamboyant men and thought that was what was in store for me, a life of ridiculous behavior, sexual depravation and probably AIDS. That is what they knew of gay people and they were scared of having a son like this.

Unfortunately for them, I always preferred arts over sports. My dad had this saying: “A man has to be ugly, strong and formal”, and even though I didn’t know what he meant by ‘formal’, I certainly qualified as ugly, as those around me would reminded me. My dad insisted on me doing manly stuff (which I did, and some of it I actually enjoyed), while my mom’s heart was slowly crushed by fear. Seeing my mother cry, I compartmentalized the pain and tried to change. I tried to be attracted to girls but it didn’t work. I just hated myself more. I hated myself for being fat, for being lonely, for making my mom cry, for not standing up to my dad, and for not having a single redeeming quality. I was a bag of flaws, a pile of nothing. Sadly, no one appeared to notice how miserable I was. I was the little, chubby, ugly, gay boy who would not talk to people. I had arrived at a truly dark, depressed place in life.

With all these things going on at home, I managed to finish middle school (barely, I must say), and when I entered high school, I knew something had to change. In the beginning, it was just introducing myself by my middle name instead of my first. I don’t know if this triggered everything else, but high school was definitely a big transition for me. I was being liked by my schoolmates and even by the teachers for the first time.

Not everything was perfect: one of the bullies from middle school was in my class again, but I developed a way to keep her at bay. First, I discovered that I could fight back. But that didn’t feel right; why would I want to say something hurtful when I very well knew how it felt to be bullied? So I found a new strategy: compliments. I realized that when you say nice things to others, they are more likely to like and trust you; so I learned how to be a good friend. I founded my school’s theater company, I was part of the band and I represented the school in regional science contests. My life was turning around and a lot of it happened because I decided the challenging things I had endured before wouldn’t define me. I could be happy, I could be proactive and I could create beauty. I discovered I wasn’t dumb as I had previously been led to believe. And while I am still clumsy when compared to a jock, I like to think this is just part of my charm. In my dark days of middle school, I couldn’t conceive of any of this.

Things at home, however, were not going as well. My parents were still trying hard to change me and introducing me to girls. I could barely talk to either the girls or my parents before I had to escape, locking myself in my room. And when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was flaws. My skin was too dark, my body was too big and fat and my face was too ugly. On top of that, I felt really guilty for caring about such things because they were ‘girly’ worries. Why would a man care about how he looks? But how I looked was important to me. I wanted to be attractive and I thought that if I could just change my appearance, then everything in my life would find its proper place.

I started to write. I created songs, poems, stories, all to express myself and what I thought about the world. I was very political for a 15 year old. I guess, my ideas were something I could rely on and that could keep me away from feelings. Even when I liked art, I was more interested in the intellectual part of it, rather than the emotions within it. Ideas were safe, whereas feelings made me feel vulnerable.

I developed a good sense of humor and I found I could sing. I was, you may say, blooming. But all this growth was completely hidden from my parents. The moment I re-entered our home each day, I went back to being quiet and miserable. I knew my parents would not like who I was becoming, so not telling them seemed like the best choice.

High school was almost over when I first kissed another teenager. And it was a game changer. Not because of the guy, but because it made me feel powerful as opposed to powerless. I was, for the first time, in touch with my sexuality after years of watching other people trying to define it for me. I now had the first taste of really living my own life; finally I was the protagonist. From that moment on, I started to believe I could be the one who defined my life. Before that, I found comfort in being the listener, because I assumed I had nothing interesting to say. Now it was about finding someone who’d listen.

With time I found my first boyfriend. We were two sad people, desperate to be held by someone else. But it was deeply validating for me. I thought that if I could be attractive to one person, then it was not that crazy to think other people may like me also. My idea that I was unlovable was uplifting. My parents found out (I’ve never been good with lies) and stopped talking to me for a short while. I was scared to become someone they would not recognize. I feared becoming a stranger to my own parents, and that was very painful. When they finally spoke to me again, all my mom said was “be discrete”. Apparently, being gay was O.K. now as long as no one knew. Later, my dad told me we needed to talk. When I approached him he asked, “Are you still my son?” I said, “yes.” He paused and my heart raced a million miles an hour. “Then I love you,” he finally said, no big displays of affection, just the right words at the right moment. That is all we each needed to know at the end of the day, that is all that mattered.

From then on, my parents started to accept me rather than trying to change me. Looking back, I realize what they did was because they love me and they thought it was the right thing to do at the time; they just wanted me to have a normal and happy life, how could I reproach that? Today, my mom is very open and supportive of my lifestyle, while my dad tries to not talk about it yet still shows me his love and supports me. And I am conscious I have been lucky. I have a wonderful family and now, an amazing boyfriend whom they also love.

I now know I have the right to be loved and some people actually love me for who I am, despite my differences. And most important of all, I have learned how to love myself, beyond looks, ideas and abilities. I love myself because I choose to, and that power has pushed me forward ever since. I am now also capable of loving someone else, accepting them for who they are, differences and all. My dad was right, love is all that matters.

Hustling for self esteem

The Hustle

Self esteem story about a model trying to define herself in terms of more than her looks

I was tired. I was depleted. I was sick. I could not clear the fog that shrouded my every waking moment, from class to work, to my boyfriend’s house. I wanted to figure out who I was separate from my looks, my grades, my job as a fashion model, my pre-med coursework, and sexual prowess. Oh my sexual prowess. Sexual powers? Sexual promiscuity. My vagina was the one thing in my life that I felt I had control over that no one else could stake claim to. I didn’t know that I struggled with my self-esteem until I hit rock bottom—several times over. At that present moment, I was in my car contemplating driving it into the median. I was driving on the main street in the college town I’d called home for the past two years, wondering, “How fast would I need to accelerate in order to hurt myself badly enough to end up in the hospital but not kill myself.” I just needed time out long enough to find myself again. This was rock bottom moment number one.

I was exceptionally beautiful, talented and smart. At least that’s what I’d been told my whole life by my mother, who was enthralled by my looks, so much so that she didn’t realize how her incessant pressure to look “just right” when I would so much as go to the grocery store, planted the seed for what would grow into a decade-long bout of clinical depression. This seed was watered by the fashion industry, which I entered into at the age of 14, which told me I could make it big—even as a black American girl—if I could just lose 15-20lbs (especially from my butt and hips) and sign control of my body over to my agent in the form of a contract. I tried to grow my hair out once during this period of my life, go natural, relaxer-free, and was quickly reminded by my manager that I no longer had a say over what was done to my hair. I was to be a blank canvas, a clothes hanger, ready at a moment’s notice to become who or whatever the client wanted me to become. I could become anything but white. After 5 years, my inability to transform myself and body to fit the required aesthetic of the day, which was dominated by girls from Eastern Europe whose last names ended in –ova, limited how far I could climb here at home, so I was told I’d need to go abroad to hit it big.

I did not have a strong foundation of self-worth instilled in me by my parents. I wasn’t born with an innate sense of worth like my sister, who is three years younger and seemed to naturally have a strong sense of her inherent fabulousness. I, on the other hand, started to believe that I was only as good as my outfit, my makeup, the meal I cooked, and any other performance metric I was able to measure myself against. I believed I had to be the “total package” in order to be worthy of the things I wanted in life. And what I wanted more than anything was a loving husband and strong family. A happy marriage, free of the drama, threats, and the bullying I witnessed between my own married parents. I wanted to create a family free of the dysfunction that characterized my own in which my mother threatened to kill me (more than once), utilized verbal abuse (sometimes in public), picked fights, and belittled me in order to vent her own unresolved pain at the hands of her mother. I would never call my daughter a “stupid, fucking bitch.” There would be family traditions and holiday celebrations and me and my siblings would be close.

So I started hustling to be worthy. I avoided appearing weak, asking questions, or developing close relationships. I overachieved constantly which gained me acceptance into all 11 of the universities I applied to including my dream school, University of Chicago. I soon felt another blow to my self-concept, which made me angry at God, an anger I carried with me through the next few years of my life. I thought God would’ve recognized my hustle and rewarded me with the financial ability to go to Chicago. A place where I could reinvent myself and be far away from the family and the self I wanted to leave behind. But He hadn’t. In spite of having just won a national beauty pageant (and the car I was about to wreck), finishing in the top 10% of my class, getting my medical research published as a 16-year-old, I would end up staying in-state going to the University of Florida. This was the institution that recognized my hustle more than the others and was willing to give me a full free-ride with a little left over to prove it. Just 2 hours away from my parent’s house, I was pissed.

I erroneously believed that the hustle there would be just as easy for me as it had always been, that grades and accolades would fall into place with little effort, and that in spite of it not being my first, or even 10th choice, my college experience would be just like the movies, “the best years of your life.” Actually, they were the worst.

My first semester in college I got involved with “Dee” a 24-year-old “super senior” working to finish his degree. I was 17, lonely (I knew no one at my school), and angry. The relationship with Dee was abusive sexually, physically, and emotionally. It wasn’t until recently that I have been able to say “I was raped” because my low-self-worth “demons” had me believing for so long that the relationship, and the things that happened in it, were my fault. After I told Dee once and for all that I was done with him he started to stalk me. I’d be driving down the street on my way to class and look in my rearview mirror and he would be there in his car following me. Another time, I was at another guy’s apartment who lived on the other side of town and looked out my window to see his car there. I woke up the next morning to mysteriously flat tires. But hey, this is what college was all about. I deserved it, right?

At that point, sex, which I’d always esteemed as an experience to be shared with my future husband, and still did deep down inside, became my drug of choice for numbing the pain of the experiences with Dee, the failed grades I’d earned during my first tumultuous semester (which was another blow to the image of myself I’d carefully curated for so long), the lack of family support, and most acutely, the lack of love in my life which I believed was a direct symptom of me not being “good enough”.

My second rock bottom moment involved me laying in the trunk of a car waiting for my “friends” to make the drive back home from homecoming weekend at a neighboring college. These friends had, the night before, lain in bed in the room where I was having sex with one of the guys whose apartment we were staying at for the weekend. They continued to lay there while the roommate of the guy I was sleeping with came in the room and sexually assaulted me. I was so drunk that I couldn’t remember the next day whether it was a bad dream or if it had really happened. It wasn’t until I got up and walked into the room where all four of these friends and the two guys were already gathered laughing and joking about what had happened that I realized it was for real. One of them made sure to remind me later, “I told you not to sleep with him.” I guess in my drunkenness I hadn’t heeded her good advice. I lay in the trunk of the car until they were ready to go, thinking about how I’d gotten to this place, what had happened, and wondering if my life would always be this painful. Sadly, not only did I believe I deserved it; I got a sort of sick release from these painful moments. It was my own form of self-harm.

Well what I know now is that I didn’t deserve it. That those experiences, regardless of how tragically common they might be, are not par for the course, and that worthiness is not something you have to hustle for. Through those experiences I was able to see glimmers of my true self, the fun-loving, lover of life, inquisitive little girl who craves connectedness and close, loving relationships. That is the self that decided not to drive my car into the median that day, to finish my degree, to seek help for my depression, to drop modeling and pre-med, and go into higher education and become a counselor. That self is my new self. The self who understands that a lack of self-esteem was both the cause and effect of my self-destructive behaviors that dug me deeper and deeper into the hole of shame where I encountered rock bottom moments number three and four.

My self-esteem journey is far from over. It is a constant battle to control my thoughts and uproot old beliefs that pop up and say “You’re not good enough!” I never took the anti-depressants I was prescribed years ago for my depression. Instead, I completed nearly two years of weekly counseling sessions and I monitor my depression closely from both physiological and mental/spiritual angles. It is hard; the fight of my life. However, I am whole and I know who I am and who I am not. I am worthy of happiness, of love and belonging. I know that the family I want is mine to create, not something I have to hustle for. And these things, I am sure, I deserve.

Purple colour for sensory depravation disorder

Coming to Your Senses

Self esteem story about growing up with undiagnosed sensory processing disorder

By Sharon Heller, Ph.D

I have a PhD in developmental psychology, taught college for many years, and have published four books with New York publishers. Yet, growing up I always thought I was dumb and my family constantly confirmed this. It took years before I perceived myself as otherwise.

I would often say or do stupid things that my family found hilarious. For instance, I had a tummy ache and my mother gave me a bottle of Alka Selzer which dissolves in water. I put a capsule in a glass of water and waited and waited but it didn’t fizzle. I complained to my parents. They looked at the glass and broke into hysterics. In place of the Alka Selzer, I had placed the Styrofoam cap on the bottom of the bottle into the glass. In home economics we were taught how to make an apron. Once I had my apron cut out, the teacher told me to cut out the pocket to sew on top of the apron. I cut out the pocket from my apron which now had a gaping hole!

As a child, I loved school but typically averaged only C’s, except in math which I routinely failed. It seemed to take me longer to understand and complete my work than other students. And when people spoke to me, I often responded with a question about something they had already told me. “Hi, I’m Susie, I live a couple blocks from here.” “Hello Susie, do you live close by?” I froze when the teacher asked me a question and often had to ask friends to repeat what the teacher had said. My family and friends thought I was out of it — spacey! Stupid. A dreamer.

I was good in athletics. Yet, I lost every tennis match and later, in my 20’s when I took up racquetball, lost virtually every time I played that as well. I assumed that unconsciously I must want to fail. What else could explain my constant confusion?

How did all this affect my self-esteem? At grammar school graduation, I signed my best friend’s autographic book “goofy.” Goofy! I was 14 years old and had just read Dostoevsky’s grand novel, The Brother’s Karamazov. In fact, I never had a book out of my hands and by 15 had read most of Freud’s works. Goofy! Hardly. But this is how I perceived myself.

So what was wrong with me? Well I did eventually find out, but not until age 50. Until then I just felt smart but dumb. And this was terrifically confusing and made me feel incredibly inferior to my peers. Why would anyone even want me for a friend except the losers like me? Indeed, the few friends I had were those even more inept than I.

I have sensory processing disorder, a common condition in which sensory messages get scrambled in the brain. This causes a “traffic jam” on the sensory highway, and you cannot make sense of or respond appropriately to your world.

In my case, I had slow auditory processing and it took me awhile to process auditory information. This is why I froze when a teacher asked me a question, why it took me longer than others to understand oral directions and, at times what was being said to me.

And I had visual processing problems. My eyes didn’t work together which made it difficult to accurately perceive my world. I saw the world as a haze. This created a delay in reading comprehension and difficulty in making sense of what I saw – the Alka Seltzer and the apron! And it explained why I lost every tennis match — I wasn’t seeing the ball!

I also had mild sensitivities to noise, smell and light and this, on top of the visual and auditory issues created anxiety and stress.

Fortunately, I am now an expert in sensory processing disorder and have largely overcome my issues.

* * *

If you are facing similarly confusing thinking patterns, you may wish to get an evaluation from a pediatrics occupational therapist trained in sensory integration.

Self Esteem and weight issues

Hiding from Love

Self esteem story about a young woman dealing with weight gain as a result of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome

By Dr Rebecca Harwin

At 17 years of age, I weighed 64 kilograms and inaccurately thought of myself as overweight, and many young women often do. I was then diagnosed with a condition called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome and within a year, I‘d added 20kg of unwanted fat to my frame. I begrudgingly struggled with this additional weight for a decade and a half.

This added girth was devastating for me. It reached its long unhealthy tentacles into each crevice and crack of my being. It altered the lens through which I viewed my existence, held me back from really living and sucked the joy from my experiences and relationships.

I began to wear unattractive tracksuits, mistakenly believing they hid the fat. I wonder, in hindsight, if really I was trying to go through life simply unnoticed. My menstrual period went on sabbatical for 15 years. I confronted the world with a face full of ugly spots, embarrassing excessive hair growth, exhaustion, and in some ways felt isolated by this illness. I was single for 13 years, and I look back and realise I avoided any chance of a romantic relationship because of the vulnerability and potential risk of rejection. My thoughts around my perceived undesirability then added to my singledom. The thoughts reinforced each other, again and again… After all, who would want me? I am ugly and flawed.When I looked in the mirror or saw a photo of myself, I saw an unfeminine figure staring back. She was hurting.

Over the years, I lost significant amounts of weight, only to unhappily re-find it again, and often some extra. Yoyo-ing is an apt term. I had to work so hard to budge a kilogram, and then I’d shoot a sideways glance at a piece of scrumptious chocolate cake and gain the weight back in a heartbeat. I’d get to the point where I’d often come to the conclusion that I’d rather be fat and happy, and give up my life of food deprivation and obsession. But I wasn’t happy. As soon as I ate like a normal individual, I’d “beef up” again as one of my patients once unkindly commented.

My weight and my self-esteem have always shared a close relationship.

I came to a point in life, at the age of 31, where I was tired of being single, over beating up on myself and finished with, in all reality, hiding from an intimate relationship because of my low self esteem. That’s when I threw myself, unabated, into the wide world of Internet dating. That’s when I met my now husband.

Apparently I used to comment daily about being unhappy with my weight, even after shedding some unwanted fat. I don’t recall the frequency, but it used to drive Dave to distraction. I tried dieting, spending time most days at the gym, I even took supposed weight loss medications, which only achieved a same weight more miserable me. In fact, with one of those medications the only thing I almost lost was my partner. The mood swings and depression they caused were horrendous.

Dave constantly told me I looked fine, that he thought I was attractive. Over time, something magical happened. I started to believe him.

The stress of feeling fat and unattractive melted away, and so did the excess weight, other Polycystic Ovary Syndrome symptoms, self-criticism and poor self-esteem. I’ve lost almost 30 kg and kept it off permanently. Five years ago, I walked down the aisle feeling beautiful and slender to marry my husband in front of my many loved ones, who had loved me regardless of my size or my perceived flaws and travelled from interstate and overseas to be there. My period returned, my skin cleared up, and my fatigue abated as well.

Looking back, I wondering if my weight didn’t subconsciously act as a form of protection. By staying overweight and believing I was unattractive, I didn’t have to put myself out there. Then I couldn’t be rejected, and my low self-esteem wouldn’t take a further battering.

What I discovered was, I didn’t need to live with low self-esteem. It wasn’t an accurate reflection of my worth, it didn’t serve me well and I was not alone. So many others were suffering too.

So my simple take away tid-bit of advice to help boost your self-esteem and live the life you deserve is to write yourself love letters, regularly. Schedule uninterrupted time to sit down with 3 blank sheets of paper and pen. Focus on your goodness, the blessings you bring to the world, how you contribute and matter. And write as if you were writing to the love of your life. You are.


Dr Rebecca Harwin is a bestselling health author and is currently writing her forthcoming book, ‘Healing Hearts, Slimming Bodies.’