Lara Love Hardin Quotes

Real power is about using your power to shine a light on other people so they can find their own power.

The worst thing I’ve ever done is build an identity out of the worst thing I’ve ever done.

I thought what I craved was approval and praise, but it’s simpler than that. I craved acceptance. For all the different versions of me I have been, and all the many lives I have lived.

I know I have a lot more inner work to do. I thought I had to convince the whole world that I am more than the worst thing I have done, the worst person I have been, but really I just have to convince myself.

Recidivism was the only financially viable path forward. The only way for the government to win is for the inmates to lose. It’s as simple as that.

Because how we take care of broken people matters. Fundamentally, I believe, it determines our own humanity. And we don’t just sentence someone to a year or five years or ten years—we turn every sentence into a life sentence. Every sentence is a life sentence.

Writing was always the only way for me to make sense of my childhood, my family, my fears, my emotions, my vast and confusing interior world.

The truth is I’ve only ever had one addiction. The white whale of addictions: escape. From as far back as I can remember there has always been a better place than wherever I am. A better me than whoever I was. Books helped me escape when I was young. Not just because of my precocious angsty-ness and early onset existential crises; they were literal escape.

Everyone’s parents loved me, except my own.

When I read, I could pretend I was someone else. I was

stalked all these lives that weren’t mine. Even the sad people in books

I am telling myself what I most need to hear. That I’m human, and humans make mistakes.

Power doesn’t have anything to prove,

There’s more alcohol at a Little League game than at a Super Bowl party.

Escape was always my real addiction, the one true high. Books were just my gateway drug.

If I am only as sick as my secrets, well then, I am in hospice.

I would sacrifice my life for theirs, but I couldn't stop using drugs for them. I don't know how to reconcile those two truths.

I loved fully until someone hurt me, and then I just pretended to love while remaining vigilant for the next bout of pain.

But she's a mess. I was a mess too. Like recognizes like.

I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better.

always loved school. I played varsity lacrosse and field hockey. I could be friends with the cool kids and the smart kids and the sporty kids and even the stoner kids although I didn’t like to get stoned. I could cross social lines seamlessly and be whoever people needed me to be. I’d like to say it was a gift born of my curiosity about people, but in truth it was more of a response to trauma. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better.

But you can’t outrun yourself,

Sometimes, the path of forgiveness doesn’t look anything like we think it will.

I know I am his mom, and there is no ticking clock, or law, or judge, or social worker who can change that.

The system is illogical in its design, broken in its execution, and guaranteed to fail those it allegedly serves.

how high the barriers are to rejoining society after incarceration, and how much harder it becomes under the weight of gossip and judgment.

Someone who’s been behind bars already knows that crime doesn’t pay. They’ve lost everything and appreciate the simple joy of having a job. They’ve dealt with prison politics, so office politics present no challenge. They understand power structures. Each is on probation or parole, so they follow all the rules. They’re used to getting up early and working hard for no pay, so they appreciate minimum wage. But most important, every one of them has something to prove. That they are valuable, worthy, and so much more than a criminal record.

I have always felt like an actor playing the role of me. My whole life I had pretended to be a beautiful, happy, shiny person in the hopes that would somehow make me a beautiful, happy, shiny person. I fit in everywhere because people love beautiful, happy, shiny people. But the problem with me trying to fit in everywhere is that I have never actually felt like I belonged anywhere. Or with anyone.

I thought what I craved was approval and praise, but it’s simpler than that. I craved acceptance.

Every sentence is a life sentence.

I realize suddenly that I’m tired of pretending I am anything other than who I am. People may love me or hate me, praise me or criticize me, reward me or punish me. All I can be is who I am now, and then work hard to become the person I most want to be.

had become her mother. And in the last weeks of her life, I had to put aside all our history and be present for her in a way she could never be present for me.

The insides of my arms are little pursed mouths and the needle in my bag is a snake, rolling and flapping against the sides of my handbag, rattling, making me want to shoot up water just to fake my arms out. And the single fang is iron, making black burns where it touches, but it is a good burn. I need that burn.

There is no other person I’d rather be than who I am. And no other life I’d rather live than the beautiful mess of a life I’m living.

Awakening by Mark Nepo. It’s

I have done lots of good in my life, and I have also done lots of bad. One doesn’t negate the other.

The truth is I’ve only ever had one addiction. The white whale of addictions: escape. From as far back as I can remember there has always been a better place than wherever I am.

The two holy men see the possibility of joy in every hard moment, and I want to live like that.

It’s easier for me to think the Dalai Lama doesn’t like me than to face the fact that deep down, despite where I am and who I’m with, I’m still not sure if I like myself.

worry about people judging me because I am constantly in judgment of myself.

you have to be willing to face the harm you’ve caused someone, be willing to make amends, and accept that a person may choose to end the relationship even if they choose to forgive you.

If I am only as sick as my secrets, well then, I am in hospice

I’m vain enough to want to look my best for my death.

I have definitely deprioritized mani-pedis during my criminal phase. Who knew jail would be open toe?

I stare at her in real life and feel vindicated, because in my mind anything Oprah approves of the culture approves of. And Oprah approves of me.

I am officially a ghostwriter, and finishing any chapter feels like being high, only different. The edges are full of confidence, and that makes it nothing like the high of opiates, which were only outlined in glittery fear and false bravado. This feeling will return every time I finish writing a chapter for the next eight years—a feeling I will chase like I used to chase drugs.

better place than wherever I am. A better me than

white whale of addictions: escape. From as far

pain only feeds on pain, not joy, so I try to find joyful moments, things to be grateful for right now. When Thanksgiving comes, I try to be grateful there’s an ice cream cup on my tray and not focus on the fact that it is the first holiday I have ever spent without my children.

I lay in my bunk bed and try to trace my life back to the moment when I stopped letting a vision for my future pull me and started letting pain push.

Ray is right. It is the first of many lessons he will teach me about gratitude and freedom. “I walk every day simply because I can,” he says. “I eat dessert first because I don’t ever want to be too full to enjoy something sweet and delicious. “I stand in the rain because you never know when you won’t be allowed to feel the rain on your skin. I don’t ever worry about the weather.

I am just one of seven billion people living their lives. Making big mistakes over and over. Growing and shrinking and growing again.

Spending a week listening to Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama alternate between teasing each other for not acting holy enough, and then crying over the profound suffering that is the human experience, changes me. Every day I walk away with some new nugget about the way I want to live my life—in service to others, accepting that I am always a work in progress, being more compassionate and more forgiving. Living in gratitude. Every day of the dialogues seems like a horoscope—there’s something specific relating to my life that I need to hear.

On death row, you die alone. In prison, you die alone. In prison you can’t be with the ones you love as they are dying. You were there. You weren’t locked up. You took care of her while she passed; be grateful for that.

My own emotions embarrassed me so I kept them private. Vulnerable wasn’t a look I was willing to wear.

Maybe she hated me for all the complicated reasons we hate people who are more like us than we can admit.

I want to be better than she was to me so she can be better than she was to me.

my ego, my denial, and my shame prevented me.