on self-esteem.

{photo by Annemarie Lawless}

I've been thinking a lot lately about confidence and self-esteem, about being real versus being beautiful, about feeling loved and accepted and wanted, about not caring what anybody else thinks.

I admitted last week that I've never struggled too much with my personal appearance. I didn't grow up with a mirror in my bedroom, didn't grow up knowing what anorexia or bulimia were until a junior high health class in which I watched a girl named Nancy bottle up her vomit in jars. (It was terrifying.) I've always just kind of liked myself, and I wonder why that is, why I kind of got lucky in that area and others didn't.

The other night I went over to my family's house for dinner. My "little" cousin is graduating from high school, and I was called over for input on invitation design, something I was more than happy to do since this weekend I missed her senior banquet and Senior Sunday at our church. (Guilt is a powerful motivator.)

We always have the greatest time at the dinner table, and in the middle of it all, my uncle interrupted.

"What does it feel like," he asked, "to be the person in the room that everyone wants to talk to?"

I laughed. "I'm not sure that's ever happened to me," I admitted.

My family just grinned. "It's happening right now!" my aunt said.

And I realized she was right.

I am like a celebrity over there. I don't deserve it. I am not particularly funny or intelligent or conversational. But they're my family. It's their job to think I'm awesome, even when I am really not.

And I began to wonder if that might have something to do with my confidence, if that might explain why as a scrawny, 80-pound 7th grader, I honestly believed I could one day play for the WNBA. I wonder if that's why I ran for 8th grade president against a popular, rather voluptuous cheerleader, or why I stood up to coaches and teachers and bullies and university presidents in unusual fits of boldness.

I wonder if my family's acceptance contributed not just to who I am, but to what I think about myself. Don't get me wrong: I have moments of doubt. I don't always like looking in the mirror, and growing up, I hated locker rooms as much as anybody else.

But deep down, I knew I belonged somewhere. I knew that no matter where I fit in at school -- whether I won school elections or made the team or got the grade -- I was loved. I had a place and a purpose and a home.

I wonder if family makes the difference in the battle for a kid's self-esteem. I wonder if one day, Jordan and I will have what it takes to raise happy, confident, Spirit-filled children.

I pray about that a lot, about our future children. Sure, I pretend to worry about having a scrawny, nerdy, less-than-cute baby or what to name our future little ones (my 70-year-old aunt has simply requested that I please avoid naming our child after any type of fruit).

But mostly, when I look around at the women (and men!) who I know and love who repeatedly feel "less than," I pray we have a child who knows they are redeemed. Yes, we are all broken. We are all flawed. We make mistakes and we hurt and we are less than perfect. But one day, I want my child to know, more than anything, that they are loved. They are accepted. They are appreciated. Their presence, their personality are needed in our home.

I want that knowledge to lead to their confidence and happiness, because I am becoming more and more certain that's what led to mine.