For the longest time, I really didn’t like myself. I knew, because I’d been told, that I wasn’t pretty or girlie. I wasn’t interested in dolls or fancy clothes, although, at the time, girls wore dresses pretty much everywhere.

Because I was deficient in many, many ways, I understood that I was not the child that my parents wanted. That’s a hard cross to bear. And bear it I did, until they died when I was a grown woman.

            My hair was a mousy brown that lacked body. It tangled easily, and since I was outside as much as possible, it fell out of its braids. I was fat, but I blame my mother for that. She insisted I eat lots and lots of food. I had to eat even when I was so stuffed that that extra bite made my stomach roil. I couldn’t get up from the table until I’d devoured everything she’d put on my plate. So I got fatter and fatter. So fat that it was hard to find school uniforms in my size.

And my classmates made fun of me, commenting of the width of my thighs, the roundness of my face, and even accusing me of smelling like urine.

Add to that a lack of female I talent. I had no interest or skill in cooking. When it was my turn to prepare a dinner meal, what I put on the table was declared inedible.

Supposedly I walked like a boy, taking long strides with shoulders back. It I was permitted to choose my clothes, I went for shirts, shorts and jeans. I hated hair ribbons. And the bulky glasses frames that my mom selected.

I was also called stupid because it took me a long time to learn things. My memory was not the best, so I was inclined to repeat the same mistakes even when punishment would be severe.

            I hated long hair. It took too much time to brush it, and then what I got older, it was difficult to style because I had no skill in that area. When I was a teen, teased hair was in vogue. It meant sleeping with uncomfortable rollers, wrapped in a roll of toilet paper. After creating a rat’s nest, then I’d smooth the outer layers out until they gleamed. Lastly, there was the mantle of hair spray. I looked terrible, but at least I was like other girls my age.

I wanted short hair cut in a “boy” style. When I finally did get it sheared off at shoulder length, it angered my father so much that he called me foul names and wouldn’t look at me for the longest period of time. That turned out to be a blessing.

            In terms of schoolwork, I was not brilliant like my brother. He excelled in science. I excelled in nothing. No, there was one thing that I could do better than him! I could write beautiful cursive. I was also a better athlete at a time when girls didn’t get to play sports.

            My teachers often yelled at me because I was slow to learn. Every teacher assigned me to tutorial during lunch, In their minds, it was a punishment, which it was when the evil sister was supervising. But, when the kind nun was in charge, which turned out to be more and more often, I loved it for she helped me understand what was expected of me. Because of her, I began to learn and do better in school. It also kept me off the playground, away from the taunts that plagued my days.

            In high school I discovered my talents in math and languages. I quickly soared to an A student in Latin, and then when we moved to California, Spanish. I was the best student in every math class I took. It was probably good that I graduated when I did, for there were no more Math classes for me to take.

            I was still awkward. I was still not pretty. I was still not girly. Because of changing norms, I could now wear shorts and jeans at home, but still had to wear dresses to school and church. I felt fat and dumpy. When I sat, the width of a single one of my thighs matched the width of both of anyone else’s combined.

            My brother and I spent endless hours in the backyard playing all kinds of sports. I beat him at badminton and then after my twelfth birthday when my semi-pro dad taught me how to bowl, I beat him there as well.

In fact, I was so good that I played on three high school teams: bowling, badminton, and Junior Varsity basketball. My family bowled game after game on weekends, trying to earn Green Stamps. I wasn’t as good as my dad, but I beat my brother and mom.

For the first time I had something to crow about. I held my head higher and walked prouder. Until the day my school enrolled me in a badminton tournament at the local community college. I was humiliated by my opponent’s lighting fast serves, which when combined with spins, made it impossible for me to return even one volley.

I quit playing badminton.

            I still remember Geoff. He was the other nerd in my eighth-grade class. He asked me out several times. I was embarrassed and declined several times. Until he suggested going roller-skating. I thought I would be pretty good at that.

At first, we skated side-by-side, but after quite a few turns going around the rink, when Geoff reached for my hand, I accepted. His hand was sweaty and disgusting.

I didn’t date again until we moved to California. Living in a duplex across the street from us was a man in his early twenties. I was sixteen when he asked me out. I’d hoped that my parents wouldn’t approve, but Andy owned his house, had a good job, and seemed to be a nice guy.

He was okay-looking. Dorky with thick-rimmed glasses. Sleeked back hair. Chunky, with no defined muscles. Not what I wanted, but my parents insisted.

If they’d known what Andy would do to me, they should have said no. At first, he was gentle and kind. But every date ended up in his house, on his couch. His kisses did nothing for me. Not the tingle in movies or TV shows. But I accepted his amorous fumblings because I had no other options.

Andy really, really liked me. He spoke of marriage, which terrified me. I wanted to go to college, to “be” something other than housewife and mother. But he taught me that I was capable of being loved, something my parents had said would never happen. I also began to understand that beauty is not defined by what you see in magazines, but how you see yourself.

            When I left for college, Andy stayed in touch, first by postcards and letters. After I’d been gone a few months, he drove down to Los Angeles to see me. We went to Disneyland and out to dinner, more than once. But whatever feelings I’d had for him had weakened.

When he proposed, I declined. I never saw him again.

I blossomed in college. My professors appreciated my skills in math and languages. I struggled in English, but nevertheless, my heart swelled with pride.

            I had been wearing the ugly glasses that mother had picked out for years. I looked like a dork. When contacts came on the market, I entered a trial program offered on my campus that gave them to me for free. I loved contacts!

Without my glasses I didn’t feel old-fashioned or clumsy. For the first time, I felt pretty. And bold, so bold that I dated several men at the same time! Wow! Imagine how it felt to be popular for the first time!

            I smiled when I walked about campus. I greeted casual acquaintances and sat with people I barely knew. I worked in the bookstore and found myself a valued employee. I was a good roommate and a good friend.

            As my circle of friends grew, so did my self-esteem. By the time I graduated, I must have had at least fifteen friends! A record number for me.

            After college I had no choice but to return home, back to the environment in which I was less-than my siblings. I was subjected to cooking lessons which I never mastered, forced to clean the entire house, including my sibling’s rooms, something I considered grossly unfair. I felt like a servant.

            To make matters worse, I couldn’t find a job. I applied wherever I could. I was rejected over and over because potential employers didn’t like that I was a college graduate with no office skills. I wasn’t even hired to distribute cards from store to store! What skills would that require?

            The longer unemployment went on, my self-esteem plummeted. At home I was that unhappy, unfeminine little girl. I was worthless because I lacked domestic skills and had no desire to learn. My activities were monitored, so I was not allowed to seek social possibilities. I could only go out when my activities were chaperoned by an adult. (I was twenty-one!)

I legally could drive and vote and drink.

When I finally got hired at a now defunct furniture store, I was out of the house forty hours a week. I bought a car. I rented a studio apartment. I was free! And once again I began to like myself.

From there I developed into the person I am today. It was not an easy road. I spent hours alone in my apartment, but I also went skiing with a friend from work, saw movies with an occasional date, and ate out with colleagues. A young man took me to see Joan Baez in concert.

I went camping with friends in the Santa Cruz mountains. I took a class in backpacking and went with the group. It was tough! My backpack was canvas on a metal frame. By the time it was on my shoulders, I fell over backwards! But I went.

The rest of my story, my story of learning to like myself, was like climbing a ladder. Each rung up taught me that I could do things, that I could succeed, that I had value.

When I look back and I realize how long I struggled to overcome those early years, it’s amazing that I emerged as me.

These are the lessons I learned:

No matter where you are in life, never give up on yourself. Fight against whatever forces hold you back. Find something that you do well. Anything. It doesn’t have to be academics. It doesn’t have to lead to career, but it could.

Believe in yourself. No matter how others treat you, no matter those who try to hold you back, know that in you, there is value. You have much to offer the world.

Like yourself. Be you.