Hey Kaleigh!

Category: Uncategorized

  • Working on It

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    You can love and honor the person you are right now while working towards the person you would like to become. This is the mantra my Pilates teacher ends class with every Tuesday, and it’s a mantra that pushes me to continue showing up for myself both on the mat and in real life. But what we always forget is that showing up and becoming the better version of you is really hard work.

    Sometimes this effort feels like a brick wall that keeps me cornered. Complicated and broad. An expansive trap in which I know better is out there, but the space feels too narrow to escape.

    And recently, I’ve started to grasp that I’m not a dilemma that needs fixing. That I don’t always need to play it safe.

    I’m beginning to realize that I built much of the wall myself. I should honestly put on my hard hat and begin demolishing my wall brick by brick. But something keeps stopping me.

    Now, I’m not naive. I’m not claiming that all my problems will be placed to the side like a game of emotional Jenga. Instead, I am actively working on myself. I’m trying to straighten out my bad habits. I’m learning that I can alter my wall into a bridge. That I can develop authentically while also feeling afraid that I am too ordinary.

    Sometimes I find that I have the concept down, but with no way to execute. Rather than smoothing my imperfections and excusing myself from situations that no longer serve me, I hang a piece of artwork on the brick wall and pretend it feels like home.

    I don’t think this means that I’m not trying. I used to be way less polished, but now I’m malleable and finding some inner peace.

    My transformation is not a one-minute TikTok video. Some days my go-with-the-flow mindset feels natural, other days I feel stiff. Things feel all-consuming, my faith wavers, problems feel harsh, and I still make the same mistakes.

    We all have flaws we wish we could delete. Our “this isn’t my best characteristic” truths. But none of my idiosyncrasies make me a failure. They make me real. Conscious. More attentive.

    And at the end of the day, I don’t love all the work, but the work is what shapes me.

    We tend to learn more from our mistakes, and sometimes that’s a gift. To be able to look at yourself and say, “This is where I am, and I’m a force to be reckoned with.” Maybe I’ll always be under construction. Maybe that’s the whole point. Brick by brick, I am learning that this wall was never meant to keep me hidden. It is meant to make me curious about what lies behind it.

  • You Can Do Anything for Ten Seconds

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    Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.

    I examine myself in the mirror, and criticize: Wow, this is my life. How do I fix this? This image of who I wanted to be never arrived. And I’m not the delicate, peaceful woman I imagined.

    So I’ve learned coming into your future is not a 2000s romcom with good lighting. It is more like an impending spiral full of looming turns, detours, and blockages. I’ve learned that Bridget Jones may be the most relatable…

    And the hardest part of moving through life is being left on hold.

    But if you can survive for ten seconds, you can usually survive ten more.

    Counting to ten has really helped me. Gripping onto myself, holding my own hand, even when the world wants me to release.

    And then, what’s ten more seconds?

    And honestly, holding on can be incredibly tiring. Especially in a world where we want everything to move fast. Figuring out who you are feels like trying to run through honey.

    So sometimes a breakthrough can look like staying with yourself even when you start to feel shaky at five seconds. Life is a dance, embrace the shakes. Breakthroughs are also letting go, even if everyone else looks like they are still holding on.

    Last month I resigned from a job I truly loved. Writing my resignation letter was one of the easiest difficult things I’ve done because it came from the heart, but breaking the news to my colleagues was a challenge. I felt like my exit meeting with my principal broke me. The meeting was quick, but even after I felt the sting.

    That afternoon I went to a sculpt class. I take this class every Friday and struggle my way through it (sometimes I swear I see Jesus), but this time was different. Whether it was a dynamic movement or static hold, I counted and persevered. I survived my meeting and I knew I would survive my class too, just ten seconds at a time.

    Counting to ten doesn’t come without some shakes (and that’s okay). 

    You know when it’s time to let go.

    And no, not everything in life is as easy as counting to ten. But paying attention is step one. Because perhaps one day I will realize I’ve stopped counting, and begun to truly live.

  • Writing Anyway

    To be totally honest here: I am an absolute red flag. Whether it’s the endless questioning of what-ifs or all of my other anxieties, I have the remarkable ability to convince myself something is wrong.

    Journaling has been a huge step forward when these spirals begin to pull me in every direction. Journaling has also taught me that my writing doesn’t always need to be perfect. This need for perfection is something I’ve struggled with as an English major.

    When I was in college, I failed one paper and I am still haunted by it four years later. So when my friends in the class asked how I did, I pretended it didn’t bother me. In reality, I felt nauseous and cried to my mom. I felt like I wasn’t smart enough. I tend to feel uneasy about my flaws so I act like I am happier than I truly am. Like my failed test scores act as an admission of how horribly I am living, and I wish I could live without my mistakes staying with me.

    I am constantly terrified of not saying the right thing. Of not doing the right thing. I criticize all my past blunders before I go to sleep each night.

    But I am learning that my writing makes me feel slightly more seen, but also concealed. Praise feels like evidence that I belong. As though my worth comes from saying the right thing.

    And the worst mistakes that I’ve made? Questioning if my writing is even good enough. Worrying that being honest lowers my value. Fearing that I will never find whatever I am seeking because that piece of me doesn’t exist.

    But here is what I’m exploring: these probing anxieties add a sharpness to my writing. They make me human. Maybe the objective isn’t to hide, but to write alongside each of my anxieties.

  • Why I Write

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    I’ve always told stories.

    When I was in grade school my teachers would tell my parents that I would be an author. It was code for Kaleigh tells tall tales. I crossed out what I needed to so I could fit in with the other kids. I told stories, because even as a child, the truth never felt good enough.

    And now that I am 23, I am still curious about how to fit in.

    I’m still trying to figure out what the rest of my life looks like, and it feels ordinary, but I still want to make something beautiful out of it.

    I question all the mantras I write down.

    I both glamorize and compare everything, and thinking about how I feel brings new feelings each day. I’m consulting ways to be confident and criticizing whether I deserve that confidence.

    I write about so many things I don’t know.

    I still don’t know if anything that I share is worth reading. I scrutinize each statement I share with uncertainty.

    The bulk of our life stories are written day-to-day, but my uncertainty probes and makes me believe that my ordinary life may be too ordinary. I want to be confident, but whimsical at the same time. I want to transform into the woman who composes my personal essays.

    I want to look back on my life one day, complicated anecdotes and all, and feel content. 

    Honestly, I appreciate my writing. Much of my appreciation comes from continuing to write even when the stories I share seem a little cringe or forgettable.

    My story is worth sharing, even if I’m the only one approving. Even if no one compliments me for it. My accomplishments are still my accomplishments.

    My writing comes fluently.

    It helps me calm down when life feels like too much. It helps me give myself praise instead of searching for it from someone else.

    Writing helps me romanticize the minor details that still feel big to me.

    Writing lets me have conversations with questions that aren’t ready to be answered. I don’t know if I am pretty. But, I guess everyone feels this question out. This perception sometimes makes me feel a little more human, especially when I write it down.

    I’m not oversharing by talking about myself. I am steadily growing. Continually learning and writing is my way of blooming. I am always learning, even when everything feels all amiss. Sometimes the hardest lessons are the most life-changing. So this is how this chapter ends.

    Not every story wins a Newbery Medal. I am still trying to figure out who I am, and while writing doesn’t always give me answers, it does keep the conversation going. The pen is always moving.

  • What If It’s Not Working?

    To be completely honest, my whole world revolves around me. Whether it’s chronic dwelling, self-induced anxiety, or something else entirely, I exhaust myself entirely.

    I harbor these fears as if they are capable of leading me anywhere other than self-destruction.

    I am terrified of how old I look. I am distressed over the fact that I am too human; that I’ve both lived through too much and not enough. My face is confirmation of the life I’ve lived, yet I still hunger for a life untouched by the ache of aging.

    I am frightened that I chose the wrong career path. Dramatically so. The agony is something I try to hide with cute stickers, fonts, and a cheerful demeanor. But what exists underneath all that animated charm?

    I am afraid that who I am is constantly changing, even if that’s the entire point of being alive. I fear that love is something I could lose.

    What if this continual journey towards self-discovery is just leading me to the beginning I’ve been avoiding all along? What if everything I’ve been running from eventually catches up to me?

    But maybe these anxieties are part of the treacherous expedition toward becoming who I am. Maybe they are proof that something is happening. Maybe the question isn’t whether things are ‘working,’ but whether I can accept that change is often loud.

  • I Thought I’d Be Over It By Now

    One of my favorite songs is “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. The lyric, “Time makes you bolder/ Children get older/ And I’m Getting Older Too,” has always resonated with me. But now that I am getting older, it’s difficult to cope with the young girl who is still inside of me.

    Some nights before I go to sleep, I am overwhelmed by nostalgia. I reminisce about my girlhood and watch a deluge of One Direction videos when I should be going to sleep. It’s mind-boggling how fast time has flown by. I just became a woman one day. But I am not quite as happy as I used to imagine.

    Turns out, my 20s are just as anxiety-ridden as my teen years. Adulthood feels like frolicking down the yellow brick road and gradually realizing Oz is darker than it first appeared.

    And the worst part is carrying the weight of the world with you.

    Sometimes it feels like there aren’t enough haircuts or yoga classes to shed the weight.

    Will my shoulders ever drop?

    There is a heaviness in my 20s that I didn’t expect. I find myself searching for answers in a classroom that expects me to be the teacher.

    And if I’m being honest, figuring out who I’m supposed to be is exhausting, especially when my FYP is full of girls my age who have it all together. Growing up feels like constantly running from your past but never moving on from it.

    Sometimes moving forward is simple as saying ‘no’ when the younger you would have defeatedly said yes. Other times it’s unlearning the habits of believing boys who tell you nice things. It is exhaling, even if your breathing feels shallow. It is choosing the journey, even when the road is deceptive.

    Here are some things I’m learning: 

    Your 20s are chaotic (and that’s perfectly fine).

    Everyone is keeping up with struggles you have no idea about.

    So no, I’m not over it yet. But maybe getting older isn’t about transforming into someone new. Perhaps it’s learning how to carry every version of you more gently.

  • Trying Myself On

    In full transparency, I haven’t settled on who I am yet. Whether it be my acne or my size, all I do is suspiciously study myself like I am trying to clock the secret plot twist in a Scooby Doo episode.

    Here are a few versions of myself I’ve tried that didn’t make the final cut.

    Botox and filler Kaleigh. My forehead and smile lines make me feel uneasy. They remind me of my age and the life I’m not living yet. A reminder of the vacations I see my friends post on Instagram while I wonder if I will ever move out. My life is moving forward while I am stuck in one place. These lines are a chunk that feels out of my control, but with a dollop of the toxins, they may even out for a while.

    But these fixes are temporary and out of my price range, and what if I still feel out of place?

    I am frightened of whoever the “real me” is. So afraid that I bury her under these versions of me.

    And what frightens me the most? What if I never love myself? What if this nonstop search for myself hides me even more? What if I am forever lacking because I never find her? What if I’m just perpetually broken?

    But what if?

    What if she always peeks through the cracks, like she’s been here the whole time? What if feeling numb is just a part of feeling human? Maybe the intention isn’t to take apart, but to evolve?

    Maybe I’m not meant to be discovered, but to softly meet myself again and again.

    Maybe these versions of me aren’t failures, but cushions. Buffers that have been trying to get me closer, even when I didn’t know where I was headed.

    Maybe what’s holding me back is the fear of not liking who I find? Maybe I’ve been purposefully looking for something to be wrong.

    And maybe the “real me” doesn’t exist in one form. Maybe she’s there in the small, hushed moments. The ones where I laugh without overthinking, or when I move my body without judgment.

    I don’t know if I’ll ever accept myself.

    But stressing about it isn’t going to make my problem go away. So I’ll keep moving forward and searching, and let you know if I ever figure it out.

  • I Thought I’d Feel Different By Now

    I’ve lost years hiding behind myself.

    I anticipate how things will end before they even begin. I measure my worth by comparing my achievements to my friends. I’ve moved through unfamiliar spaces with confidence, while still doubting each step.

    And now…I’m here at 23, rambling on about how I made it this far.

    I don’t think I have enough friends, but making new ones feels risky. I’m still too insecure to put myself out there.

    I’m still intimidated by the older “mean girl” teachers at my adult job.

    I’m afraid I don’t really know myself.

    There are so many things I still don’t like about myself. I often feel like I need to explain myself, but deep down I wish I could just be unapologetic.

    I take things day-by-day because my brain is a vast spiral. I wish I was more intentional. I hope one day I stop believing every insecurity that crosses my mind.

    I’m frightened that I am wasting my life away. That I am living without purpose.

    And yet, I appreciate my life. Much of this joy comes from realizing that the ugliest moments have turned into the strongest lessons.

    Will I ever be kinder to myself?

    Is this as good as it gets? Am I missing out?

    Is my anxiety ever going to stop convincing me that mistakes deserve a full fight-or-flight response?

    Will this ever feel simple?

    Unfortunately, not one of these questions has an easy answer. The TikTok makeup tutorials aren’t going to make me prettier or skinnier. They are going to make me more insecure.This is a lesson I’m still learning.

    When I speak about my fears, I sometimes find myself hiding behind some kind of apology. I always find myself changing. Always convinced that something is wrong.

    But it’s still coming together.

    So I guess I leave you with this:

    Not everything is going to work out.

    You are still capable, even when you make mistakes.

    You will sometimes find yourself in some disarray. It’s fine. Life goes on.

    My life feels so chaotic, but something still leads me to think I’m headed in the right direction, so I’m trying to be a little kinder to myself. You should too.

    I am still figuring it out. But I am trying to reconcile who I am with who I am becoming. 

    She’s set on being kinder.

  • You Were Never Broken

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    In total honesty, I don’t know if I’ve ever been completely content with myself. Each phase felt unworthy until it became a past to look back on. Now, I grieve for my past selves while desiring to become someone new.

    One day, everything will align at last. I will wake up and stop cringing at my childhood photos. Stop observing my flaws in the mirror. Stop obsessing over the milestones I haven’t reached yet and start appreciating the ones I have.

    I will be proud, not just of the things I’ve endured, but of who I have lived into.

    Today, though? I doomscroll through Instagram like I am searching for insecurities I haven’t unlocked yet. I admire others because they are so different from me. I am convinced that someday I’ll sparkle brighter, laugh louder, and love myself more gently.

    But it’s hard to get there when you feel emotionally broken.

    Still, maybe I’m not broken at all.

    Maybe I’m just doubting too loudly. Sitting still for too long and realizing that every foolish version of me still deserves to feel loved.

    Someday is too far away to start improving. Now should do just fine.

  • Your Body: Has She Ever Done You Wrong?

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    My body isn’t chiseled. I’m having an awful day full of body dysmorphia and asking myself abominable questions that I know won’t give me mercy.

    I have these despicable moments where I am anticipating failure. I degrade myself. I minimize myself for the sake of being liked by others. I stock all my self-love in this dusty attic and I reluctantly unlatch the worn out lock sometimes. Only when I feel like I have earned it.

    Sometimes I speak to my body with irritation. Other times, with  awe of all that she’s done for me.

    I’ve looked at photos and felt detached from her.

    Still, I always cut back to the interrogation room: What’s wrong with you, Kaleigh?

    My relationship with my body is inconsistent. I shape her like an object, covering who I am with who I wish I could be.

    My body.

    The last thing I allow myself to love.

    I present myself as the “girl-next-door” with bangs and glasses and balance. But the truth is I hate being seen. I totally giggle awkwardly when complemented. I quietly berate myself while loudly adoring others. I make mistakes.

    These emotions always return when they are too hard to ignore. But I wouldn’t speak this way to a friend; why can’t I treat my body like someone worthy of love?

    I acknowledge this body, but forget to treat her like somebody.

    This constant criticism follows me: judgmental and defeating.

    It holds me back each time I try to grow. This scrutiny I’ve accustomed myself to scares me.

    But it’s impossible to flourish without feeling uncomfortable.

    Maybe I should take this as my sign to be kinder to my body. Calmer when there are parts of her I can’t control. She’s never done me wrong.

    She has carried me through years I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

    She has held her composure when I tried to make myself smaller.

    She learned my patterns before I did.

    She tenses when I am afraid.

    She softens when I finally let go.

    She has endured every cruel thought I’ve directed at her and still helps me get out of bed. She breathes, moves, and keeps me alive.

    So no, she has never failed me. I’ve just mistaken control for care.

    Maybe love doesn’t look like admiration yet. Maybe it starts as neutrality. As acceptance. My body is not a problem to solve. She is a testimony.

    And maybe the most affirming thing I can do is to quit asking what’s wrong with her and begin thanking her for surviving me.