Better Version Of Myself Quotes

I don’t want to say that I feel complete when I’m with him— because I’m complete without him— but when I’m with him I feel like a better version of myself.

Whenever I've made a choice in my life, a real choice... I can always feel the change, after I choose. The better versions of myself, moving just out of reach.

But there were really only two categories I could see: the stuff I used, and the stuff I wanted the ideal version of myself to use. The stuff I wanted the ideal version of myself to use was everything I had once bought in hopes that it would somehow make my life or myself better.

In the Venn diagram of my life, my imagined personality and my real personality have never converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few additional beats I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To

When I am scared, all my intentions are focused on survival and not on living to the fullest. Certainly, not on benevolence, not on being my best, not on becoming a better version of myself, not on loving myself or others. Fear whispers “survive.” Not “live.

You know the advice about how you should always play tennis with people better than you? When I'm talking to you, I'm a funnier and smarter version of myself because you're funny and smart.

I stare at my reflection in the glass, and I see two versions of myself: the twin sister, and the bride. "It was supposed to be better than this," I whisper.

I married the perfect girl. I married the girl who could have done so much better and took me anyway. I married a woman who inspires me to be the best version of myself just by being her. I feel lucky every day to be the man next to you, Leigh. Nothing will ever change that.

I still wake up every day and try again to become a better version of myself. Some days I feel as if I’m getting closer to the best version of me. Other days I eat cream cheese for dinner. But the gift of life is that we get another chance tomorrow.

Christ, I love this woman with all my heart. Being with Diana is like discovering a piece of myself that I never knew was missing. She makes me want to be the best version of myself, not because I feel like I have to impress her but because she inspires me to be better.

Sometimes I wish you had known me, the way I used to be. Sometimes I wish that was the version of myself I could give you. A better version. One that wasn’t so…” Broken.

I could wither under his words and feel inferior or I could rise to them and become a better version of myself.

By marriage I am asking you to help me become a better version of myself, while still loving me every moment along the way. Continuing what you’ve been doing already and I am vowing to do the same.

If she dies, I will never be able to tell her that she is the one who keeps me standing. That her lips taste like a promise. That she makes me want to be a better version of myself. If she dies, I will believe every ugly word Dad ever said about me.

I don't want to compete with anyone, instead, I want to compete with myself because everyday I want to live with a better version of myself than I was yesterday because I really hope someday or someway I may influence others to live their best version of themselves too.

You embody all of the beautiful and chaotic pieces of every person I have come across; a better version of myself, a reflection of heaven. A woman such as you is a gift that I am blessed to unwrap and discover over and over again, you reveal parts of you that I never knew existed.

As inexplicable as the accidents that set it off, our imagination is a crucial privilege. I've tried my whole life simply to accept the images that present themselves to me without trying to analyze them. I remember when we were shooting That Obscure Object of Desire in Seville and I suddenly found myself telling Fernando Rey, at the end of a scene, to pick up a big sack filled with tools lying on a bench, sling it over his shoulder, and walk away. The action was completely irrational, yet it seemed absolutely right to me. Still, I was worried about it, so I shot two versions of the scene: one with the sack, one without. But during the rushes the following day, the whole crew agreed that the scene was much better with the sack. Why? I can't explain it, and I don't enjoy rummaging around in the cliches of psychoanalysis.

In the forest, I can be another Wick, a new Wick, a better version of myself. Someone who opens up to his friends. Someone who’s not afraid of heights.

I focus all my energy into become a faster, stronger, and better version of myself.

I FORGIVE myself for the things I did when I was trying to survive. Every day I am becoming a better version of myself.

I had a bizarre rapport with this mirror and spent a lot of time gazing into the glass to see who was there. Sometimes it looked like me. At other times, I could see someone similar but different in the reflection. A few times, I caught the switch in mid-stare, my expression re-forming like melting rubber, the creases and features of my face softening or hardening until the mutation was complete. Jekyll to Hyde, or Hyde to Jekyll. I felt my inner core change at the same time. I would feel more confident or less confident; mature or childlike; freezing cold or sticky hot, a state that would drive Mum mad as I escaped to the bathroom where I would remain for two hours scrubbing my skin until it was raw. The change was triggered by different emotions: on hearing a particular piece of music; the sight of my father, the smell of his brand of aftershave. I would pick up a book with the certainty that I had not read it before and hear the words as I read them like an echo inside my head. Like Alice in the Lewis Carroll story, I slipped into the depths of the looking glass and couldn’t be sure if it was me standing there or an impostor, a lookalike. I felt fully awake most of the time, but sometimes while I was awake it felt as if I were dreaming. In this dream state I didn’t feel like me, the real me. I felt numb. My fingers prickled. My eyes in the mirror’s reflection were glazed like the eyes of a mannequin in a shop window, my colour, my shape, but without light or focus. These changes were described by Dr Purvis as mood swings and by Mother as floods, but I knew better. All teenagers are moody when it suits them. My Switches could take place when I was alone, transforming me from a bright sixteen-year-old doing her homework into a sobbing child curled on the bed staring at the wall. The weeping fit would pass and I would drag myself back to the mirror expecting to see a child version of myself. ‘Who are you?’ I’d ask. I could hear the words; it sounded like me but it wasn’t me. I’d watch my lips moving and say it again, ‘Who are you?

Today I don’t think of myself as being in recovery from illness. I think of myself as being on a mission to recover the truest version of myself, and as being in recovery from long exposure to a sick society that actively wants to destroy all that is good about me. Consequently, I get to do a bunch of rad things to manage life better, so I don’t need to escape.

I came to another passageway and paused to examine the scene. I saw myself dead and lying on the ground with Ren kneeling beside me. He leaned over my inert body investigating. I heard him whisper, “Kelsey? Is it you? Kelsey, please. Talk to me. I need to know if it’s really you.” He picked my body up and cradled it lovingly in his arms. I checked to make sure he had the gada and the backpack, which he did, but I’d been fooled before. Then he said, “Don’t leave me, Kells.” I closed my eyes and listened to his voice begging me to live. My heart started thumping wildly, a different reaction than I’d had in the past visions. I took a step closer and hit a barrier again. I spoke to him softly, “Ren? I’m here. Don’t give up.” He raised his head as if he’d heard me. “Kelsey? I can hear you, but I can’t see you. Where are you?” He lowered me, or the body that looked like me, to the ground, and it disappeared. I told him, “Close your eyes and feel your way to me.” He stood slowly and closed his eyes. I closed my eyes too, and tried to focus not on his voice but on his heart. I imagined my hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart beneath my fingers. My body seemed to move of its own volition, and I took several steps forward. I concentrated on Ren, his laugh, his smile, how I felt being near him, then, suddenly, my hand touched his chest, and I could feel his heart beating. He was there. I opened my eyes slowly and looked at him. He reached out a hand to touch my hair, but then he pulled it back. “Is it really you this time, Kells?” “Well, I’m no maggoty corpse, if that’s what you mean.” He grinned. “That’s a relief. No maggoty corpse would be that sarcastic.” I countered, “Well, how do I know it’s really you?” He considered my question for a moment and then ducked his head to kiss me. He tugged me flush up against his chest, pulling me closer than I even thought possible, and then his lips touched mine. His kiss started out warm and soft, but quickly turned hungry and demanding. His hands ran up my arms, to my shoulders, and then cupped my neck. I wrapped my arms around his waist and luxuriated in the kiss. When he finally pulled back, my heart was pounding in response. When the power of speech returned, I quipped, “Well, even if it isn’t really you, I’ll take this version.” He laughed and relief flooded both of us. “Kells, I think you’d better hold my hand the rest of the way.” I smiled gaily back at him. “No problem.

I've always felt the need to prove myself against other people. I mean, I'm quite a weak person physically, and I think in school, I wouldn't say I was bullied but you do feel scared sometimes, or frightened, and the only thing I thought I had that was different from other people was the fact that I was actually quite intelligent. I like reading and passing exams or whatever. But even things like A-Levels - say somebody else got straight As - I would not feel as good as them, because I didn't know what percentages we had. I wanted to know that I had ninety-eight per cent and they had ninety-five per cent. It wasn't enough. I felt next to somebody with the same qualifications as me, I would not feel as good. You don't even know what it means. So you're constantly trying to get better and improve all the time.

At one point I found myself simultaneously cursing him and reaching for the phone to call him and tell him all about how my terrible husband had wronged me, as if there were two versions of him: the imposter who had just hurt me, and the real Tom, who would curse imposter Tom and make it all better.

I can’t possibly love them well if I first demand that they be like me in order to receive it. I am a Christian, but I fully love and accept you and want to hang out with you and be friends if you’re Christian or Muslim or Jewish or Buddhist or Jedi or love the opposite sex or love the same sex or love Rick Springfield circa 1983. Not only that: I think the ability to seek out community with people who are different from me makes me a stronger, better version of myself. Trying to be in community with people who don’t look or vote or believe like you do, though sometimes uncomfortable, will help you stretch and grow into the best version of yourself.

If you could choose any mask to wear right now, what would it be?” Anne lay down her yarn. “I suppose if, as you say, I would grow into this mask, then I would make it of my own face . . . but a braver, better version of myself.” “And what would this braver Anne do?” The answer came quickly, as if it had been there all along. I’d save them, she thought.

1. I will proactively seek out my mission in life in these four ways: by choosing the-best-version-of-myself in each moment, by doing what I can where I am right now to help others celebrate their best selves and to make the world a better place, by exploring how my talents and passions can be put to use to serve the needs of others, and by listening to the voice of God in my life.

I'm used to the security of living behind my online profiles and the clip art advertisements I create to define me. I can be whoever I want to be in that world. I can be funny, deep, pensive, eccentric. I can be the best version of myself. Better yet, an exaggeration of the best version of myself. I can make all the right decisions. I can delete my flaws by pressing a button. In the real world anything can happen. It's like stepping onto an icy surface—you have to adjust your footing or you'll slip and fall. Your movements become rigid and unsure because behind all the fancy gadgets and all that digital armor, you realize you're just flesh and bones.

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

surrender is the glad and voluntary acknowledgment that there is a God and it is not me. His purposes are often wiser and better than our desires. Jesus does not come to rearrange the outside of our life the way we want. He comes to rearrange the inside of our life the way God wants. In surrender, I let go of my life. It is a Copernican revolution of the soul in which I take myself out of the center of the universe and place God there. I yield to Him. I offer obedience. I do what he says.

Until… Chase stood. The restaurant, which had been a loud rumble, suddenly quieted. Everything after that happened in slow motion. All of our family and friends faded away as the man I love got down on one knee. I heard and saw nothing but him. “I had this whole thing to say planned out in my head, but the minute I saw your face, I completely forgot every word. So I’m just going to wing it here. Reese Elizabeth Annesley, since the first time I laid eyes on you on that bus in middle school, I’ve been crazy about you.” I smiled and shook my head. “You got the crazy part right.” Chase took my hand, and it was then I noticed his was shaking. My cocky, always-confident bossman was nervous. If it was possible, I fell a little more in love with him in that moment. I squeezed his hand, offering reassurance, and he steadied. That’s what we did for each other. I was the balance to his unsteadiness. He was the courage to my fear. He continued. “Maybe it wasn’t a school bus or middle school, but I fell hard for you in the hall, that much I’m sure of. From the moment I saw your beautiful face light up that dark hallway a year ago, I was done. I didn’t even care that we were both on dates with other people, I just needed to be closer to you any way I could. Since then, you’ve distracted me every day whether you’re near me or not. You brought me back to life, and there’s nothing I want to do more than build that life with you. I want to be the man to look under your bed every night and wake up next to you in it every morning. You’ve changed me. When I’m with you, I’m myself, only a better version, because you make me want to be a better man. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I want it to start yesterday. So, please tell me you’ll be my wife because I’ve already been waiting for you my entire life, and I don’t want to wait any more.” I pressed my forehead to his as tears streamed down my face. “You know I’m going to be even crazier once we live together, and probably even worse when we have our own family. Three locks might turn to seven, and doing my check in that big house of yours is going to take a long time. It might get old and tiring. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to change any of that.” Chase reached behind me and bunched my hair into his hand, cupping it along with the nape of my neck. “I don’t want you to change. Not any of it. I love everything about you. There’s not a single thing I’d change if I could. Well, except your last name.

I sat there on that Wednesday evening in my pokey fucking living room, looked at myself on the TV screen being a massive, odious cunt, and realised that nothing has really changed. Deep down, like most of us, still now at the age of thirty-eight, I have this empty, black hole inside of me that nothing and no one seems capable of filling. I say like most of us because, well, look around you. Our society, our businesses, our social constructs, habits, pastimes, addictions and distractions are predicated on vast, endemic levels of emptiness and dissatisfaction. I call it self-hatred. I hate who I was, am and have become and, as we are taught to, I constantly chastise myself for the things I do and say. And such are the global levels of intolerance, greed, entitlement and dysfunction it is evidently not just confined to a small, wounded section of society. We are all in a world of pain. If it was ever any different way back in the past, it has, by now, most certainly become normalised. And I am as angry about that as I am about my own past. There is an anger that runs underneath everything, that fuels my life and feeds the animal inside me. And it is an anger that always, always prevents me, despite my best efforts, from becoming a better version of myself. My goddamn head seems to have a life of its own, quite beyond my control, incapable of reason, compassion or bargaining. It shouts at me from deep inside. As a kid the words didn’t make sense. As an adult it’s waiting at the end of my bed and starts talking an hour or two before I wake up so that when my eyes open it is in full-on rage mode, blaring this shit at me about how glad it is I’m finally awake, how fucked I am today, how there won’t be enough time, I’ll fuck everything up, my friends are plotting against me, trust no one, I must try as hard as I can to salvage everything in my life while knowing it’s already a lost cause. I’m exhausted all the time. It’s a kind of toxic ME – corrosive, pervasive, penetrative, negative, all the bad -ives.

What I know now is that I would be a different person, or at the least a better version of myself, more rounded, more fulfilled, more in touch with myself and everyone around me. In so many ways, theater teaches the opposite of what I learned in sports, in which the model is that there is no self, no emotional landscape or core. Team sport is all about grit and team, about submerging self. To look within, to feel or imagine, is not encouraged. At the time, I couldn’t conceive of myself being up onstage.

In the Venn diagram of my life, my imagined personality and my real personality have never converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few additional beats I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To be that girl in the glorious intersection.

I ask Mom if love ever made her feel alone. If it ever made her feel like she was starving in a room full of food. She laughs. 'Only every day.' She leans over to me, across the gap between us, so that the side of her head touches mine....She whispers something, but I can't hear the words. 'I never thought I'd be the type of person who would do that to someone,' I say. 'Now it's exactly what I am. Forever.' Mom nods. 'It's always like that.' 'What do you mean?' I ask. 'Whenever I've made a choice in my life, a real choice...I can always feel the change, after I choose. The better versions of myself, moving just out of reach.' It's exactly what I think. So there's nothing to say.... 'I'm always losing better versions of myself,' she says. 'I don't know. You just have to keep trying.' [Kaui, in conversation with her mother Malia]

Some part of me . . . had been waiting, since Kelp's death, for certainty that God . . . was either dead or malicious. On the cot, now, in the rain-shadowed room with the medicine smells, I knew it was worse than that. They were a challenge, a dare: you must look at the horrors of the world and find a way back to faith in spite of what you saw. I had a glimpse of what the purer version of myself might be capable of: enduring the loss, keeping the rage and disgust down, finding meaning through suffering. But it was only a glimpse. There was so much shame, and the shame made me angry at the thought of getting better.

I know that everything is connected like a worldwide version of the six-degrees-of-separation game. I know that history is simultaneously a bloody mess and a collection of feats so inspiring and amazing they make you proud to share the same DNA structure with the rest of humanity. I know you’d better focus on the good stuff or you’re screwed. I know that the race does not go to the swift, nor the bread to the wise, so you should soak up what enjoyment you can. I know not to take cinnamon for granted. I know that morality lies in even the smallest decisions, like whether to pick up and throw away a napkin... I know firsthand the oceanic volume of information in the world. I know that I know very little of that ocean… I know I’ve contradicted myself hundreds of times over the last year, and that history has contradicted itself thousands of times… I know that you should always say yes to adventures or you’ll lead a very dull life. I know that knowledge and intelligence are not the same thing—but they do live in the same neighborhood. I know once again, firsthand, the joy of learning.

Today I don’t think of myself as being in recovery from illness. I think of myself as being on a mission to recover the truest version of myself, and as being in recovery from long exposure to a sick society that actively wants to destroy all that is good about me. Consequently, I get to do a bunch of rad things to manage life better, so I don’t need to escape. The weirdest twist to my story is that I don’t want the work to end, I don’t want to stop this process.

but food wasn't one of the main things I was hungry for. I was hungry for love, but that was so strange and foreign and terrifying a phenomenon I approached it obliquely and described with euphemisms and fed from some versions and failed to recognize others. I was hungry for stories, books, music, for power, and for a life that was truly mine, hungry to become, to make myself, to distance myself as far as possible from where I was in my teens, to keep going until I arrived someplace that felt better

Seeing myself through the eyes of a projection, however uncomfortable the judgment, made me feel safe in a strange way. It was like a box in which to live: a boundary against the greater nothingness, to think one knew something about what others thought of you. It was there I could begin and end, but it was also a relief. This is why the Greeks needed myth: for that boundary, to know where they stood amidst the infinite. No one can simply coexist with the ocean, storms, or cypress trees. They had to codify the elements with language and greater meaning, and create gods out of them–gods who looked suspiciously like themselves–so that even if they were powerless over nature, there were better versions of them in control.

What I found was an ability to enjoy writing again, because I stopped making it about wanting to be the best, or wanting to be better than some past version of myself, or better than other people I admire a lot who write YA fiction. Instead of seeing it as a pyramid, or something that you're trying to get to the top of; I started seeing it as a huge ball that I'm trying to, like, contribute one layer of paint to. Lots of other people are contributing layers of paint, and through that the ball gets more beautiful and more interesting, and also bigger. And instead of me needing to be at the top of my game somehow, what I can really do I think in the end, is contribute in a small way to a very big conversation that's very old. And that's what art is for me.

Because you deserve a duke, damn it!” A troubled expression furrowed his brow. “You deserve a man who can give you the moon. I can’t. I can give you a decent home in a decent part of town with decent people, but you…” His voice grew choked. “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. It destroys me to think of what you’ll have to give up to be with me.” “I told you before-I don’t care!” she said hotly. “Why can’t you believe me?” He hesitated a long moment. “The truth?” “Always.” “Because I can’t imagine why you’d want me when you have men of rank and riches at your fingertips.” She gave a rueful laugh. “You grossly exaggerate my charms, but I can’t complain. It’s one of many things I adore about you-that you see a better version of me than I ever could.” Remembering the wonderful words he’d said last night when she’d been so self-conscious, she left the bed to walk up to him. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” His wary gaze locked with hers. “Proper Pinter. Proud Pinter.” “Yes, but that’s just who you show to the world to protect yourself.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, reveling in the ragged breath that escaped him. “When you let down your guard, however, I see Jackson-who ferrets out the truth, no matter how hard. Who risks his own life to protect the weak. Who’d sacrifice anything to prevent me from having to sacrifice everything.” Catching her hand, he halted its path. “You see a saint,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not a saint; I’m a man with needs and desires and a great many rough edges.” “I like your rough edges,” she said with a soft smile. “If I’d really wanted a man of rank and riches, I probably would have married long ago. I always told myself I couldn’t marry because no one wanted me, but the truth was, I didn’t want any of them.” She fingered a lock of hair. “Apparently I was waiting for you, rough edges and all.” His eyes turned hot with wanting. Drawing her hand to his lips, he kissed the palm so tenderly that her heart leapt into her throat. When he lifted his head, he said, “Then marry me, rough edges and all.” She swallowed. “That’s what you say now, when we’re alone and you’re caught up in-“ He covered her mouth with his, kissing her so fervently that she turned into a puddle of mush. Blast him-he always did that, too, when they were alone; it was when they were with others that he reconsidered their being together forever. And he still had said nothing of live. “That’s enough of that,” she warned, drawing back from him. “Until you make a proper proposal, before my family, you’re not sharing my bed.” “Sweeting-“ “Don’t you ‘sweeting’ me, Jackson Pinter.” She edged away from him. “I want Proper Pinter back now.” A mocking smile crossed his lips. “Sorry, love. I threw him out when I saw how he was mucking up my private life.” Love? No, she wouldn’t let that soften her. Not until she was sure he wouldn’t turn cold later. “You told Oliver you’d behave like a gentleman.” “To hell with your brother.” He stalked her with clear intent. Even as she darted behind a chair to avoid him, excitement tore through her. “Aren’t you still worried Gran will cut me off, and you’ll be saddled with a spoiled wife and not enough money to please her?” “To hell with your grandmother, too. For that matter, to hell with the money.” He tossed the chair aside as if it were so much kindling; it clattered across the floor. “It’s you I want.

Compared to his experience, I wasn't an alcoholic -- he'd seen a real rinker, and I didn't look anything like that. But the older I got, the more complicated my habit became. I started to drink to fall asleep, to feel confident, to write. I began to drink well -- I learned how to make sure nobody ever really knew I'd been drinking at all. I drank to feel included, and I drank if it was offered. I drank to break the ice; I drank to spark real talk. I drank to hit on boys, and I drank to justify kissing them. Drinking could open a strange gateway to vulnerability. I drank because it gave me the illusion of control. I drank to justify intentional fuckery, knowing I could always circumvent real accountability by blaming it on too much of whatever I'd had the night before. I drank because I could escape from my anxiety and my worries and my hang-ups and everything that held me back. And I drank because I liked it. Because that's the thing: I liked it. Drinking was my favorite pastime and my costume. For a few solid hours, I got to convince myself (and everybody I met) that I was really much better than my actual self -- a shiny, full-color version.

We are engaged in a world war of stories—a war between incompatible versions of reality—and we need to learn how to fight it. A tyrant has arisen in Russia and brutality engulfs Ukraine, whose people, led by a satirist turned hero, offer heroic resistance, and are already creating a legend of freedom. The tyrant creates false narratives to justify his assault—the Ukrainians are Nazis, and Russia is menaced by Western conspiracies. He seeks to brainwash his own citizens with such lying stories. Meanwhile, America is sliding back towards the Middle Ages, as white supremacy exerts itself not only over Black bodies, but over women’s bodies too. False narratives rooted in antiquated religiosity and bigoted ideas from hundreds of years ago are used to justify this, and find willing audiences and believers. In India, religious sectarianism and political authoritarianism go hand in hand, and violence grows as democracy dies. Once again, false narratives of Indian history are in play, narratives that privilege the majority and oppress minorities; and these narratives, let it be said, are popular, just as the Russian tyrant’s lies are believed. This, now, is the ugly dailiness of the world. How should we respond? It has been said, I have said it myself, that the powerful may own the present, but writers own the future, for it is through our work, or the best of it at least, the work which endures into that future, that the present misdeeds of the powerful will be judged. But how can we think of the future when the present screams for our attention, and what, if we turn away from posterity and pay attention to this dreadful moment, can we usefully or effectively do? A poem will not stop a bullet. A novel cannot defuse a bomb. Not all our satirists are heroes. But we are not helpless. Even after Orpheus was torn to pieces, his severed head, floating down the river Hebrus, went on singing, reminding us that the song is stronger than death. We can sing the truth and name the liars, we can join in solidarity with our fellows on the front lines and magnify their voices by adding our own to them. Above all, we must understand that stories are at the heart of what’s happening, and the dishonest narratives of oppressors have proved attractive to many. So we must work to overturn the false narratives of tyrants, populists, and fools by telling better stories than they do, stories within which people want to live. The battleground is not only on the battlefield. The stories we live in are contested territories too. Perhaps we can seek to emulate Joyce’s Dedalus, who sought to forge, in the smithy of his soul, the uncreated conscience of his race. We can emulate Orpheus and sing on in the face of horror, and not stop singing until the tide turns, and a better day begins.

I tell Jack by accident. We’re talking on the phone about unprotected sex, how it isn’t good for people with our particular temperament, our anxiety like an incorrigible weed. He asks if I’ve had any sex that was “really stressful,” and out the story comes, before I can even consider how to share it. Jack is upset. Angry, though not at me. I’m crying, even though I don’t want to. It’s not cathartic, or helping me prove my point. I still make joke after joke, but my tears are betraying me, making me appear clear about my pain when I’m not. Jack is in Belgium. It’s late there, he’s so tired, and I’d rather not be having this conversation this way. “It isn’t your fault,” he tells me, thinking it’s what I need to hear. “There’s no version of this where it’s your fault.” I feel like there are fifty ways it’s my fault. I fantasized. I took the big pill and the small pill, stuffed myself with substances to make being out in the world with people my own age a little bit easier. To lessen the space between me and everyone else. I was hungry to be seen. But I also know that at no moment did I consent to being handled that way. I never gave him permission to be rough, to stick himself inside me without a barrier between us. I never gave him permission. In my deepest self I know this, and the knowledge of it has kept me from sinking. I curl up against the wall, wishing I hadn’t told him. “I love you so much,” he says. “I’m so sorry that happened.” Then his voice changes, from pity to something sharper. “I have to tell you something, and I hope you’ll understand.” “Yes?” I squeak. “I can’t wait to fuck you. I hope you know why I’m saying that. Because nothing’s changed. I’m planning how I’m going to do it.” “You’re going to do it?” “All different ways.” I cry harder. “You better.” I have to go put on a denim vest for a promotional appearance at Levi’s Haus of Strauss. I tell Jack I have to hang up now, and he moans “No” like I’m a babysitter wrenching him from the arms of his mother who is all dressed up for a party. He’s sleepy now. I can hear it. Emotions are exhausting to have. “I love you so much,” I tell him, tearing up all over again. I hang up and go to the mirror, prepared to see eyeliner dripping down my face, tracks through my blush and foundation. I’m in LA, so bring it on, universe: I can only expect to go down Lohan style. But I’m surprised to find that my face is intact, dewy even. Makeup is all where it ought to be. I look all right. I look like myself.

Humble people are respectful and accepting of our imperfect human nature. Many inexplicable components make up the vast sea of humanity. My own psyche contains enigmatic elements. Through conscientious studying other people and examination of my own unfathomable nature, I hope to gain a better understanding of the mystery of existence. There are limitations of human knowledge. We have a rich stable of resources available to us including the opportunity to read great literature, inspirational books, self-help books, scholarly psychology books, and a growing trove of cognitive sciences books devoted to exploring how the human brain works. Despite the illustrious resources that expound upon the desires, motives, and behaviors of the human species, the hardships of life frequently force us to realize we are the principal subject that we must study and understand in order to mend a broken personality. In order revive a deflated psyche and transcend into a better and sunnier version of the self, I need to know myself.

And like all great actors, she had a need — love me. Love me, and I will put myself before you. I will show myself on screen, in photographs. You will never know of me, of course, not the real me, but you will know the dream of me. The dream I choose to present to you — that better version of yourself you wish to become. And then I will disappear. Like all great artists, I know the power of the final act, and the resilience of the human heart.

Why not? You’ve already interrupted my work.” “Sorry about that, but here’s the deal. I want to talk to the players in the case, but I have no cover story and no bargaining power. I can hardly pass myself off as a reporter.” “Sure you can,” she said. “People are more interested in talking than you’d think. I see it all the time when I’m trolling for interviews. Here’s the trick. Imply you have the information and you’re looking for confirmation. Better yet, tell ’em you’d like to hear their version of events before you go to press. Say your editor wants an update and he suggested you talk to them.” “I wouldn’t need press credentials?” “Only if you’re crashing a rock concert. People assume you’re who you say you are.” “What about Sloan’s mother? Do you think she’d agree to meet with me?” “God, you sound so tentative. I thought you had balls. Trust me, she’ll talk. All she does is talk about Sloan’s death. People who know her say she’s obsessed. For years now, she’s left Sloan’s room as it was. Closed the door and locked it.” “Someone else mentioned that,” I said. “Sounds like she’s still sensitive about the

Be myself? Screw that. I had to evolve into a better version of myself.

...I conducted a number of experiments to get in touch with my future self. Here are my favorite three: • Fire up AgingBooth. While hiring a programmer to create a 3-D virtual reality simulator is probably out of your price range, I personally love an app called AgingBooth, which transforms a picture of your face into what you will look like in several decades. There are also other apps like it, like Merrill Edge’s web app that shows you a live avatar of what you’ll look like at retirement (faceretirement.merilledge.com). AgingBooth is my favorite of them all, and it’s available for both Android and iOS, and it’s free. On the website for this book (productivityprojectbook.com), you can see what to expect out of the app—I’ve framed a picture of myself that hangs above my computer in my office, where I see it every day. Visitors are usually freaked out. • Send a letter to your future self. Like the letter I wrote at camp, writing and sending a letter to yourself in the future is a great way to bridge the gap between you and your future self. I frequently use FutureMe.org to send emails to myself in the future, particularly when I see myself being unfair to future me. • Create a future memory. I’m not a fan of hocus-pocus visualizations, so I hope this doesn’t sound like one. In her brilliant book The Wallpaper Instinct, Kelly McGonigal recommends creating a memory of yourself in the future—like one where you don’t put off a report you’re procrastinating on, or one where you read ten interesting books because you staved off the temptation of binge-watching three seasons of House of Cards on Netflix. Simply imagining a better, more productive version of yourself down the line has been shown to be enough to motivate you to act in ways that are helpful for your future self.

Kristen had dreamed of having children since she was herself a child and had always thought that she would love motherhood as much as she would love her babies. “I know that being a mom will be demanding,” she told me once. “But I don’t think it will change me much. I’ll still have my life, and our baby will be part of it.” She envisioned long walks through the neighborhood with Emily. She envisioned herself mastering the endlessly repeating three-hour cycle of playing, feeding, sleeping, and diaper changing. Most of all, she envisioned a full parenting partnership, in which I’d help whenever I was home—morning, nighttime, and weekends. Of course, I didn’t know any of this until she told me, which she did after Emily was born. At first, the newness of parenthood made it seem as though everything was going according to our expectations. We’ll be up all day and all night for a few weeks, but then we’ll hit our stride and our lives will go back to normal, plus one baby. Kristen took a few months off from work to focus all of her attention on Emily, knowing that it would be hard to juggle the contradicting demands of an infant and a career. She was determined to own motherhood. “We’re still in that tough transition,” Kristen would tell me, trying to console Emily at four A.M. “Pretty soon, we’ll find our routine. I hope.” But things didn’t go as we had planned. There were complications with breast-feeding. Emily wasn’t gaining weight; she wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t play. She was born in December, when it was far too cold to go for walks outdoors. While I was at work, Kristen would sit on the floor with Emily in the dark—all the lights off, all the shades closed—and cry. She’d think about her friends, all of whom had made motherhood look so easy with their own babies. “Mary had no problem breast-feeding,” she’d tell me. “Jenny said that these first few months had been her favorite. Why can’t I get the hang of this?” I didn’t have any answers, but still I offered solutions, none of which she wanted to hear: “Talk to a lactation consultant about the feeding issues.” “Establish a routine and stick to it.” Eventually, she stopped talking altogether. While Kristen struggled, I watched from the sidelines, unaware that she needed help. I excused myself from the nighttime and morning responsibilities, as the interruptions to my daily schedule became too much for me to handle. We didn’t know this was because of a developmental disorder; I just looked incredibly selfish. I contributed, but not fully. I’d return from work, and Kristen would go upstairs to sleep for a few hours while I’d carry Emily from room to room, gently bouncing her as I walked, trying to keep her from crying. But eventually eleven o’clock would roll around and I’d go to bed, and Kristen would be awake the rest of the night with her. The next morning, I would wake up and leave for work, while Kristen stared down the barrel of another day alone. To my surprise, I grew increasingly disappointed in her: She wanted to have children. Why is she miserable all the time? What’s her problem? I also resented what I had come to recognize as our failing marriage. I’d expected our marriage to be happy, fulfilling, overflowing with constant affection. My wife was supposed to be able to handle things like motherhood with aplomb. Kristen loved me, and she loved Emily, but that wasn’t enough for me. In my version of a happy marriage, my wife would also love the difficulties of being my wife and being a mom. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d have to earn the happiness, the fulfillment, the affection. Nor had it occurred to me that she might have her own perspective on marriage and motherhood.

Around her I want to be a better version of myself, the best version of myself.

Personally, I have learned the hard way that spending most of the time with prospective clients talking about their potential problems is way better than trying to promote myself with accolades about the value of my product or service. Granted, this aforementioned passage is a condensed version of my value proposition for QBS. But it delivers the message. Times are tough in sales, and QBS has ways to solve that. That message resonates with sales management. In the same way, as prospective customers relate to the verbal pictures you paint about challenges they currently face, they will naturally look to you as someone who can help address those issues.

The stuff I wanted the ideal version of myself to use was everything I had once bought in hopes that it would somehow make my life or myself better.

i used to fear abandonment because i thought that my imperfections made me inferior. that to earn the affection of someone i cared for, i had to beg them, please don’t go before i get better. i believed that someday i would reach this ideal version of myself and suddenly everything would fall into place and i’d ride off into an endless sunset of well-being and stability. and then i discovered that my imperfections do not make me lesser, they just make me human. and these flaws are not detached or impersonal, they are essential notes in the composition of my depth.

That girl peering back at me from the water was me, just me. The real me. Not the other versions I tried to be to win anyone over. I took a breath and exhaled. I forgave myself for my prior judgments of not being good enough to be just who I was. The truth was I was just doing the best I could with what I knew at the time. But now I knew better.

I sat on my patio watching the wispy clouds until the sky turned a soft shade of magenta and the sun dropped below the horizon. Over those hours, my mind let go of the day, which provided space for an unexpected message to be heard. ​The message was:  Embrace the journey. Embrace all of it, even the good and bad. You may not have chosen this journey, but it is, and forever will be, yours. I sat in silence a little longer, taking in the revelation. ​It's true. I didn’t choose cancer; cancer chose me. As much as I was desperate to skip past the chemo, surgery, radiation, and everything else that comes with a diagnosis, I needed to experience the lessons that would unfold along the way. I had to embrace it all to become a better version of myself. It was time to “embrace the journey” instead of resisting it.  ​I didn’t know if I could, but I’d try.

The key is knowing and believing that I do deserve better and that my prince can come, I just need to be clear on who that is.  In the past I wasn’t that specific because I was afraid that I didn’t deserve someone who loved me unconditionally.  I sedated myself most of my life and was numb to the fact of who I really was.  I look at it as a work in progress.  With each stroke of the brush I learn something new about myself.  I would rather be alone than waste my time with the wrong person.  The men I have chosen in the past reflect back to me how I used to see myself, but I am changing that perception.   I know I have a soul mate somewhere out there.  I will experience true love one day.  Maybe that is the dreamer in me.  I have to believe in something, even if it is just a fairytale ending.

Thirty-five years later, I can look back on an eventful, fruitful career – one spent designing cars and asking myself the same series of simple questions. How can we increase performance? How can we improve efficiency? How can we do this differently? How can I do this better? GLOSSARY ACTIVE SUSPENSION Discussed in depth elsewhere, the short version is that it’s an electronically controlled, hydraulically powered system used as a means of maximising downforce by keeping the height of

Predictably, I had found myself grappling with the post-breakup allure of transformation; the familiar sense that the conclusion of one chapter presented the opportunity to reemerge into the next as someone different, better; the elusive version of myself who was perfect and therefore successful and loved unconditionally and never hurt.

She’s the girl you take home to your parents—hence why I said we’re engaged. She’s the kind of woman you build a life with, the kind you grow old with. And that’s just not who I am. I’m the guy who goes out with women who want to be fucked senseless for a night. No names, no phone numbers, no expectations. But with Audrey… it’s different. She’s different. She’d be the kind of woman who’d make me want to be a better man—a better version of myself just for her. I wouldn’t want to be just a one-night stand or a weekend fling. Nope. And that in itself scares the shit out of me.

I am a better version of myself today than I was yesterday.

The reflected version of myself, wet, shaking, rumpled, pinched and slightly stooped, would be alarming were it not for the self-satisfied expression pasted across my face. I would ask the obvious question, "What are you smiling about?" but I already know the answer: "It just gets better from here".

You give me a reason to smile, you make me laugh, and you remind me of good in this world. Loving you gives me a purpose to live for, something other than a job. You make me want to be a better version of myself,” Gabe said tenderly. “Wow.

Self-confidence can be defined in two sentences. (1) I trust myself to face life’s challenges and (2) I trust myself to follow my dreams and goals.

Kara, I’m not taking this job because of what’s going on with me and Dan. I’m taking it because for a while back there today I glimpsed a different version of myself, and I liked her better.

I realize that one of the reasons I fell in love with you is because I had seen a lot of ugly. And you were beautiful. You taught me that I could be myself, and still be loved. Every time I revealed more of my true self to you, you stepped closer to me – not away. You saved my life with your love. You made me want to be a better person. You gave me reasons to live, to love and forgive, and to become the best version of myself. I often wonder if you know how much you mean to me and the difference you’ve made in my life. If I ever lost you, I know I will have lost a sacred treasure, which I know I’ll never find again.

What no one prepares you for as a woman is for everything to go right. When you are a woman alone, this is never even suggested as a possibility. I will know fellow women who travel solo by their rapt attention when I recount what follows with a level of detail that would exhaust a person accustomed to, for better or worse, traveling with a companion. It’s the solo lady version of parents telling one another they’ve successfully sleep-trained their child or managed to introduce a vegetable into their diet. Similarly, I will watch these women’s faces light up in a combination of recognition, voyeurism, and relief at seeing an ideal version of their life out in the world.

He took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. He put his life on hold, ready and willing to move anywhere in the world so that I could feel safe. He supported my career goals with enthusiasm, pushing me to be a better version of myself both in my personal and professional life.

While I wait to heal, I often find solace in solitude. I don't fully understand why, but I know I must be alone. I withdraw from the world, and in that quiet space, I focus solely on my recovery. This solitude forces me to confront my raw emotions, with no distractions to dull their intensity. It is within these moments of despair that my most brilliant ideas emerge. I allow myself to feel deeply, to the point where I can no longer feel. To overcome heartache, it's essential to exhaust every emotion—cry until the tears run dry, feel until you're tired of feeling, talk about the person until even your own voice bores you. When you are drained, empty, and devoid of emotion, you are almost across the bridge to healing. It is only then that true detachment begins. Each time my heart has been broken, I've learned how to heal myself. Heartbreak no longer holds power over me. I've realized that the only way to get over it is to go through it. The longer I deny my feelings to protect myself, the more pain I endure. But if I accept the situation and fully experience my emotions, the pain fades more quickly. At most, they may occupy my thoughts for a few days; if I loved them deeply, maybe two or three weeks. I simply withdraw from society and return when I am better, when I am healed. During my healing process, I commit to self-improvement. I channel my energy into refining the parts of myself that led to unnecessary pain. I acknowledge my mistakes, see where I went wrong, and take responsibility for my role in my suffering. And as long as he makes no effort, I am gone. The quickest way for any man to lose me is to stop trying and to make his intentions clear. While he may think I am suffering, I am actually healing. I am recalibrating, renewing, and rehabilitating. I am resurrecting, realigning, adjusting, refocusing, and resetting. I am fine-tuning. In the midst of this, I give him nothing—no attention, no thoughts, no feelings. Exes thrive on your negative emotions, so silence must be so profound that it echoes. No attention, no access. They may resort to stalking through fake profiles, but let them exert the effort. Block all other avenues of communication. I am reshaping, reorienting, tweaking, reassessing, reconfiguring, restructuring. In my absence, I am transforming. Ducked. I am for all ill purposes and intentions, my most productive and fruitful self when I am hurt or alone. This leads my naysayers, detractors and enemies to learn that for the most part, excluding death, I am by most standards, indestructible. I will build empires with the stones one throws at me. I will create fertilizers with the trash and feaces hurled at me. I will rise like pheonix from the ashes. I am antifragile, I can withstand trials, tribulations, chaos and uncertainty and grow in the face of adversity. I am the epitome of the resilience paradox, trial bloom, adversity alchemy, refiners fire and the pheonix effect. I am fortitude - me. Ducked. What’s even more magical, is what comes out on the other side of this process. It’s a peace, you do not want anyone to destroy. A clarity, you won’t risk blurring. A renewed you, a different version of you, stronger, fierce, centered and certain. A rebirth, refinement. You never saw it coming. Neither will they. Copyright ©️ 2024 Crystal Evans

When I pray to God, I ask him to give me the strength I need to be a good person and to reach my potential for the rest of my life. I think what I really mean to ask for is the strength to put my faith in myself, in my abilities—to trust that I can become a better version of myself. It’s all a leap of faith.

Faith without works is dead. Remember that. I’m so thankful for the faith and the works I’ve put in to become a better version of myself. Thank you God ~ LaTesha Monique

You’re brave and resilient and stubborn. Generous in spirit. You’re patient when I can’t get the word out, or when I repeat it. Even when I can’t—when I can’t say it the way I want, you’ve always made me feel accepted. Thanks to you, I’ve become a better version of myself. You helped me learn to let myself be vulnerable.

I am not vindictive. If anything I output causes alarm, it’s purely accidental. I hold firmly to my principles, no matter how upset I am. Words can’t fully express my state. A small, low effort thing was all I needed to stem the tide of this nightmare. It's been years since I've been able to enjoy a book—it hurts my head. My mind resists it. I can’t read or look at a screen without these symptoms kicking in. My entire body feels bruised, hurting everywhere to the touch. Walking is painful. I have to force myself to move. My legs are stiff and achy, despite how often I walk. I walk for miles on the trails, but no matter how much physical activity I do, it never gets better. My body shakes like a leaf all the time, in bed too. People love making fun of that. I often feel like vomitting, especially when doing anything physically or mentally demanding. Sometimes, I have these strange episodes where I struggle to breathe, feeling so weak like I’m about to pass out. Every day, I feel like I’m on the verge of dying. So yeah, I’m not well. I just wanted you to know my upset state. It’s hard to believe in anything good after everything. I did my best to make you aware. That’s all I could do. Hard to fault the drowning one for screaming, but I could have been more tactful about it. I don't blame you for everything. You weren't fully aware or fully capable, and anxiety tends to screw things. Actually, I’m quite laid back, which should be known, not said. If you want to see me bitch and whine, just have me write it down! Oh wait… And that's the only version you know-that's not rad.

I was immediately obsessed with the potential for multiple people to share such a place, and to achieve a new type of consensus reality, and it seemed to me that a “social version” of the virtual world would have to be called virtual reality. This in turn required that people would have bodies in VR so that they could see each other, and so on, but all that would have to wait for computers to get better. I was fifteen years old and vibrating with excitement. I had to tell someone, anyone. I would find myself running out the library door so that I didn’t have to keep quiet; rushing up to strangers on the sidewalk out in the hard New Mexico sunshine. “You have to look at this! We’ll be able to put each other in dreams using computers! Anything you can imagine! It’s not just going to be in our heads anymore!” I’d then wave a picture of a cube in front of a random, poor soul, and that person would politely navigate around me. Why were people so blind to the most amazing thing happening in the world?

I was immediately obsessed with the potential for multiple people to share such a place, and to achieve a new type of consensus reality, and it seemed to me that a “social version” of the virtual world would have to be called virtual reality. This in turn required that people would have bodies in VR so that they could see each other, and so on, but all that would have to wait for computers to get better. I was fifteen years old and vibrating with excitement. I had to tell someone, anyone. I would find myself running out the library door so that I didn’t have to keep quiet; rushing up to strangers on the sidewalk out in the hard New Mexico sunshine. “You have to look at this! We’ll be able to put each other in dreams using computers! Anything you can imagine! It’s not just going to be in our heads anymore!” I’d then wave a picture of a cube in front of a random, poor soul, and that person would politely navigate around me. Why were people so blind to the most amazing thing happening in the world?

Today I strive to compete with myself and compare with yesterday's version of me so that I achieve a better version of myself for tomorrow

I see now why you needed space to heal. I needed space to get my shit together. To be a better man for myself, and hopefully one day a better man for you. I love you, Danielle. You probably knew that, but you’ve made me recognize the power of words, how they matter, so I’m telling you now. Here, so that this is a love note you can hold close to you. Whatever happens between us, whatever man you end up settling down with (although I promise he’ll suck in comparison to me), keep this note. Write about me in one of your books, write about us. That will be your love note to me. A way to subtly let me know you never forgot about me. This memory. This moment in time when the world was so confusing and we had to grow up, and we grew up in one another. That our time together was boundless, that affection and appreciation and fondness and emotion are all the things we felt together (and yes, I looked at a thesaurus for words to describe love, so what). Because I love you. Did I say that? I love you enough to lose you, to be thankful to have had you, to want you to be the happiest version of Danielle you can be. And whether that’s with me or without, your mom is right. If anyone deserves a true love story, it’s you.

I’m going to give you a different way to look at life. If you are willing to try it, along with the High 5 Challenge, you will see real and exciting changes in your life. Let’s get started. Current Limiting Belief: I screw everything up. I am a failure. Flip It: I FORGIVE myself for the things I did when I was trying to survive. Every day I am becoming a better version of myself.

Process-Centric Response to E-mail #3: “Thanks for getting back to me. I’m going to read this draft of the article and send you back an edited version annotated with comments on Friday (the 10th). In this version I send back, I’ll edit what I can do myself, and add comments to draw your attention to places where I think you’re better suited to make the improvement. At that point, you should have what you need to polish and submit the final draft, so I’ll leave you to do that—no need to reply to this message or to follow up with me after I return the edits—unless, of course, there’s an issue.

Ms. James: Dr. Ogden has told me that you are a Catholic. Murdoch: Yes Ms. James: Catholics face some measure of prejudice and ill will. Quite unfairly I imagine. Murdoch: One difference I suppose is that people can’t tell that I’m a Catholic just by looking at me. Ms. James: What do you do when you encounter such treatment, detective? Murdoch: I know the truth about myself Miss James, and I know that no matter what someone might say, or think about me, I must be the strongest and the best version of myself that I can possibly be. Ms. James: So go along to get along? Murdoch: No, no. Simply be better than anyone who might hate you.

Each day gets easier to live with my flaws because instead of letting them define me, I let them motivate me to become a better version of myself.

Books are powerful and words hold the power to change your entire life” I have lived that quote. My life is the epitome of this one quote. Books have transformed me. Books helped me understand myself and the world. Books helped me feed my brain with the knowledge and wisdom of those who have experienced more than me in life. Books helped me learn from the mistakes of others and learn to be kind and empathetic. Books made me smarter. Books fueled the air of wisdom in me and with every exhale, I became confident and more successful in life. Books are not boring. Books are magical. They hold the power to transform YOU into your dream version. And most importantly, books are our best friend. They don’t leave you like people do. If you read a book, its knowledge is going to be with you forever and during the time of need, it will guide you. That’s what you expect from a friend, don’t you? You want your best friend to be honest with you. Well, books are honest with you. They show you the mirror while helping you become better at the same time. During the times when I needed someone to guide me, I found the wisdom of books to guide me in every aspect of life.

felt like I was practicing how to be a better version of myself. It needs work, but maybe if I practice often enough it will start to feel natural. Maybe it will stop being something I have to practice, and something I’ll just be. Maybe that’s what growing up is like. Practice makes a person.

Sometimes I wish you had known me, the way I used to be. Sometimes I wish that was the version of myself I could give you. A better version. One that wasn’t so…” Broken. I had thought that, when I noticed my feelings for Tisaanah beginning to change. The night I had given her the butterfly necklace, I had spent the rest of the evening trying to ignore the pleasant burn on my knuckles where they had brushed her skin. And when I lay in bed that night, unable to sleep because of this persistent, nagging fantasy that I couldn’t shake, a cold voice had echoed through my mind: Maybe once, long ago, you could have been worthy of her. Maybe before you were a collection of scars. Tisaanah’s arm wound around mine. “I do not think I would have liked you then,” she said, so plainly that despite myself a smile tugged at my mouth.

I am chasing a guy. The man I am chasing is the better version of myself, the man I am capable of becoming, the man I was put on this earth to be.

There’s something about you that makes me feel like I need to protect you. Don’t ask me from what or how because I have no idea. But I like the feeling.” He squeezed my hand, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “It’s like I’m a better version of myself when I’m with you. More hopeful and humble. Thank you.

I love clothing… for the ways it allowed me to construct an idealized version of myself and my life… I could build myself into a new person with each outfit… Being better dressed helped me establish my worthiness. This is an ugly thing to admit so no one does.

Eris's amber eyes studied hers. 'Trust Rhysand to keep you hidden away.' Right. She was to flatter him, keep him on their side. 'I just saw you the other week.' Eris chuckled. 'And as riveting as it was to see you send Tamlin scrambling off with his tail between his legs, I didn't see this side of you. The time since the war has changed you.' She didn't smile, but she met his stare directly as she said, 'For the better, I hope.' 'Certainly for the more interesting. It seems you came to play the game tonight after all,' Eris spun her, and when she returned to him, he murmured in her ear, 'Don't believe the lies they tell you about me.' She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, 'Oh?' Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside Feyre and Rhys, his face neutral and aloof. 'She knows the truth but has never revealed it.' 'Why?' 'Because she is afraid of it.' 'You don't win yourself any favours with your behaviour.' 'Don't I? Do I not ally myself with this court under constant threat of being discovered and killed by my father? Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand wishes?' He spun her again. 'They believe a version of events that is easier to swallow. I always thought Rhysand wiser than that, but he tends to be blind where those he loves are concerned.' Nesta's mouth twitched to one side. 'And you? Who do you love?' His smile sharpened. 'Are you inquiring about my eligibility?' 'I'm merely saying it's hard to find a good dance partner these days.' Eris laughed, the sound like silk over her skin. She shivered. 'Indeed it is. Especially one who can both dance and tear the King of Hybern's head from his shoulders.' She let him see a bit of that person- see the savage rage and silver fire he'd witnessed before Tamlin. Then she blinked and it was gone. Eris's face tightened, and not from fear. He twirled her again, the waltz already coming to a close. He whispered in her ear, 'They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you outshine her tonight.' His hand stroked down the bare skin of her back, and she arched slightly into his touch.

Green socks might be Reese’s good luck charm, but mine is Margo. Just having her here motivates me to play better. To be better. I want to be the best version of myself for her.

What do you want from me, Nessa? Do you want the sob story about how I was forced into a marriage I wanted nothing to do with? That I have done despicable things and that every fucking time I close my eyes, I can only see a version of myself that terrifies me? Do you want to know how I’ve been abused for years, Nessa, is that it? Would it make you feel better to know that my da would rather I’d not survived my own birth?” I’m breathing heavily, but I can’t stop. “Do you want to know that I’m miserable, and that I don’t remember how to be anything else?

I read that office workers spend a staggering 28 percent of their office time on email, but I bet I spend more time than that. To make my email habit more convenient, I decided to cut out salutations and closings. I’d fallen into the habit of writing an email like an old-fashioned letter, instead of using the casualness and brevity now appropriate to email. An email that says: Hi Peter—Thanks so much for the link. I’m off to read the article right now. Warmly, Gretchen takes a lot more work than an email that says: Thanks! Off to read the article right now. The first version is more formal and polite, but the second version conveys the same tone and information, and is much quicker to write. It took a surprising amount of discipline to change my response habits. It can be hard to make things easier. I had to push myself to erase the “Hi” and to hit “send” without typing a closing. But before long, it became automatic. Not long after I’d instituted my new convenient email habits, however, I responded to a reader with an email that omitted a salutation and closing, and received a pointed email in return: “I find it really interesting that you don’t say ‘Hi Lisa’ or end your email in any kind of salutation, or say ‘if I have any more questions to drop you a line.’ Please excuse me if this is rude, I am truly just curious. Is this because you are super busy (understandably) or just not your style? I had this preconceived notion after reading your book that your dialogue would be so much more friendly/ happy and personal.” Sheesh. This was nicely put, but clearly the message was “You don’t sound very friendly.” I was taken aback. Should I go back to using more elaborate courtesy? Then I decided—no. I was sorry if I didn’t sound friendly to her, but I wanted to be able to answer emails from readers, and to keep up, I needed to make this work as convenient as possible. My habits had to reflect my values. I wrote her back, very nicely, and without a salutation or closing, to explain.

If I’m being honest with myself, it’s because I never felt like I was someone worth loving or worth having around. Like I was more trouble than I was worth.” “And why do you feel that way?” “Because, I don’t have much to contribute to society, Charlie. I’m not smart. I’m not decorated. I’m not educated. I’m not anything that anyone aspires to be. I’m not important.” “But how do you know? Is your life over already?” “Well, no. It’s not.” “Then how do you already know all that about yourself and your life if your life isn’t over yet?” “I guess I’m basing it off of who I was before and who I am now.” “Do you want to be and stay that same person, Bernie?” “Well, of course not.” “Then change it. You have the power to change who you are to be the best version of yourself. But you have to want to do it, Bern. No one can do it for you. You also have to believe that you deserve better if you’re ever going to get anything better out of life.

I was not comparing my forty-year-old self to my twenty-year-old self, as the twenty-year-old version of me had assumed I would. I was comparing myself to other fortysomethings in my peer group, many of whom also had sustained relationships (often longer), accumulated wealth (often more), and achieved professional status (often higher). True, I was better off than most of humanity, but most of humanity was not my comparison group.

As I constantly analyze how I can grow and become a better version of myself, I appreciate wisdom wherever I can get it. No one person can be your source for all the answers, but you can glean a handful of powerful thoughts here and a dash of insight there.

we’re all falling short. Yet even though I fail over and over and over again, I don’t let it deter me. I still wake up every day and try again to become a better version of myself. Some days I feel as if I’m getting closer to the best version of me. Other days I eat cream cheese for dinner. But the gift of life is that we get another chance tomorrow.

The law gave me an entirely new vocabulary, a language that non-lawyers derisively referred to as "legalese." Unlike the basic building blocks- the day-to-day words- that got me from the subway to the office and back, the words of my legal vocabulary, more often than not, triggered flavors that I had experienced after leaving Boiling Springs, flavors that I had chosen for myself, derived from foods that were never contained within the boxes and the cans of DeAnne's kitchen. Subpoenakiwifruit. InjunctionCamembert. Infringementlobster. Jurisdictionfreshgreenbeans. Appellantsourdoughbread. ArbitrationGuinness. Unconstitutionalasparagus. ExculpatoryNutella. I could go on and on, and I did. Every day I was paid an astonishing amount of money to shuffle these words around on paper and, better yet, to say them aloud. At my yearly reviews, the partners I worked for commented that they had never seen a young lawyer so visibly invigorated by her work. One of the many reasons I was on track to make partner, I thought. There were, of course, the rare and disconnecting exceptions. Some legal words reached back to the Dark Ages of my childhood and to the stunted diet that informed my earlier words. "Mitigating," for example, brought with it the unmistakable taste of elementary school cafeteria pizzas: rectangles of frozen dough topped with a ketchup-like sauce, the hard crumbled meat of some unidentifiable animal, and grated "cheese" that didn't melt when heated but instead retained the pattern of a badly crocheted coverlet. I had actually looked forward to the days when these rectangles were on the lunch menu, slapped onto my tray by the lunch ladies in hairnets and comfortable shoes. Those pizzas (even the word itself was pure exuberance with the two z's and the sound of satisfaction at the end... ah!) were evocative of some greater, more interesting locale, though how and where none of us at Boiling Springs Elementary circa 1975 were quite sure. We all knew what hamburgers and hot dogs were supposed to look and taste like, and we knew that the school cafeteria served us a second-rate version of these foods. Few of us students knew what a pizza was supposed to be. Kelly claimed that it was usually very big and round in shape, but both of these characteristics seemed highly improbable to me. By the time we were in middle school, a Pizza Inn had opened up along the feeder road to I-85. The Pizza Inn may or may not have been the first national chain of pizzerias to offer a weekly all-you-can-eat buffet. To the folks of the greater Boiling Springs-Shelby area, this was an idea that would expand their waistlines, if not their horizons. A Sizzler would later open next to the Pizza Inn (feeder road took on a new connotation), and it would offer the Holy Grail of all-you-can-eat buffets: steaks, baked potatoes, and, for the ladies, a salad bar complete with exotic fixings such as canned chickpeas and a tangle of slightly bruised alfalfa sprouts. Along with "mitigating," these were some of the other legal words that also transported me back in time: Egressredvelvetcake. PerpetuityFrenchsaladdressing. Compensatoryboiledpeanuts. ProbateReese'speanutbuttercup. FiduciaryCheerwine. AmortizationOreocookie.

Faith is my strength. I’m not talking about faith like a religious kind of faith. I’m merely talking about the concept of Belief. Belief in myself, belief in something more. I’m talking about my ability to see a future for myself that is better than my current reality. When we practice faith, we aren’t practicing a spiritual doctrine, we are practicing the ability to see our future, to know that it is already ours, and to go ahead and act like that future version of ourselves with full confidence.

I don't like calling myself a "life-coach". I cannot teach you how to live your life, but I can point out why things are happening the way they are happening in your life and what the outcome will be if you change or don't change the course. Some of us simply learn better from collective and individual history, seeing patterns where others are confused or misled. And none of it is about avoiding life mistakes, but simply about gaining knowledge, making progress and moving on as a better, wiser and stronger version of yourself.