Red, Red Nail Polish

Yesterday, I painted my nails bright cherry red. 

These are my actual hands and my real nails. Just in case you were wondering.

I think it’s the first time I’ve ever painted my nails red—like really, really red. 

I’ve been a nail-biter for most of my life. (And yet I didn’t realize I had anxiety until I reached my early 40s…..) So I haven’t had the opportunity to paint my nails except for those brief periods of time when I managed to stop biting my nails.

When I do paint my nails, I tend towards softer colors. Partly because I don’t think I’m very good at painting my nails, and it seems like mistakes hide easier with softer colors. 

But I realized while noticing my bright red nails yesterday (because I kept noticing them! They’re so bright!) that the other reason I’ve shied away from red is because I don’t think my mom would approve of bright red. And this is a very strange thought for a couple of reasons. One, in many ways I have consciously made choices in my life based on what my mom would not do. So why have I kept this small prejudice, unconsciously, for so long? Two, the only reason I think my mom wouldn’t like bright red nail polish is the fact that I’ve never seen her wear it…but I’m 99% sure she wouldn’t like it.

This has echoes of a revelation I had last week. I have been working to counteract the stories depression has been telling me by telling myself a different story: a true story. This is the story of what a strong person I am. I have survived hard things--some hard things that have been forced upon me and some that I’ve chosen. I have survived and I have thrived. Instead of breaking, I have been able to bend and bounce back stronger than I was before. I value this strength in myself. I am proud of it.

What I realized last week, though, is that there is a small part of me that is also scared of this strength. This part of me believes that it’s safer to be the protected instead of the protector. This part of me does not want to be responsible for anyone’s pain, and believes that the only way to avoid responsibility is to give someone else the power to act. This is the part of me that wants to curl up into the armadillo. This is the part of me that keeps my voice quiet, and my colors timid. This is the part of me that feels more comfortable on the edges. 

It’s a contradiction that I hadn’t recognized before, but it’s been a part of me for a very long time. I’ve been pulled by both of these parts for as long as I can remember. I spoke up in class, but always with a quiet voice. I was shy, but every year—from 1st grade to 8th grade—I forced my friends or myself to put on an act for the school talent show, even though it was completely voluntary. In fact, as I look back on my over four-and-a-half decades of life, I see how I’ve let myself be pulled more by the side of strength than by the side of fear. But that pull towards fear has never disappeared completely.

We hold so many things within ourselves. We are complex and full of contradictions. And every part, even the yucky ones, deserve grace and compassion. 

Peace and hugs to you, friends. And I hope you’ll paint your nails whatever color brings you joy. 

P.S. The expectations we pile on ourselves this time of year can be so heavy. I hope you’ll give yourself some breathing room. Don’t let yourselves be fooled by the social media posts and the advertising and the holiday cards. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re not the only one feeling more stressed than blessed. I promise!