Write A Book...Maybe

So, I’ve been told by many people that I write well and that I should write a book. I always laughed that off because I’m not an author, sure I was an English major in college, but that doesn’t mean I can write. And yes, occasionally I can spout off something witty or thought provoking after I’ve had an experience, but that would account for a few pages, not an entire book. And what would I write about? I don’t feel like I’ve arrived at anything and have no authority to give people advice on anything. But what if I did write a book? A non-fiction book. What would I write about? People say you should write about what you know. I know about sorrow, loss, heartache. I know about working my ASS off to lose weight only to have it come off very slowly. I know singleness, being an outsider, always feeling like I’m the only one bold enough (maybe dumb enough) to challenge things and ask questions about why they are the way they are. I know what it’s like to be the fat girl wherever I go and ALL the things that come along with that. I know what it’s like to be an aunt to two of the most beautiful little people in the world. I know what it’s like to grow up on a farm and what it’s like to use your imagination to play outside instead of being cooped up with video games. I know what hard work is all to well. I know what it’s like to have parents who did their best, but their best wasn’t always good enough. I know what it’s like to grow up in a home where you had to perform, where praise was void, where affection was absent, where feelings were stuffed because no one wanted to hear about it. I know what it’s like to live my life as a people pleaser who spends most of her energy trying to make others happy and becoming lost in the process. I know what it’s like to be a fighter, to cling on to hope. I know what it’s like to fail and fail big, yet eventually pick myself back up and try again. I know what it’s like to have desires, deep longings and not have them realized. I know what it’s like to be my own worst critic and never feel like I’m good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, thin enough, kind enough, loving enough, and the list is endless. I know amazing friendships that have forever changed my life. I know deep loss of those same relationships. I know laughter, laughter so good it hurts and makes you cry. I know giving up, throwing in the towel, settling. I know feeling lost, left out, isolated. I know not fitting in. I know being bullied. I know the overwhelming joy of finishing my first half marathon. I know crying myself to sleep. I know laughing so hard I peed my pants. I know getting up early. I know routine. I know solitude. I know me.