When I tell people I served my mission at Temple Square, I typically get one of three responses.
The most common is, "that's where they send the pretty sisters." Just for the record, in my twenty years of living I have never met a sister missionary that wasn't pretty.
The second most common response is, "oh." I'm never quite sure how to respond to this because I rarely can tell whether it is meant as a positive or negative comment.
The third is the saddest, but I feel like it's the most relatable. It usually includes a comparison of my mission to a "real" mission......
I am not someone else's opinion of me.
The third is the saddest, but I feel like it's the most relatable. It usually includes a comparison of my mission to a "real" mission......
I am not someone else's opinion of me.
After having individuals explain to me how incredibly hard serving a real mission is I vowed to never treat another person like that. To never excuse someone's efforts because I felt I had a more deserving example. Never to compare their hard work to another's in attempt to discredit it.
However, over the past year, I have caught myself having that very conversation with myself. As I read someone else's writing, or poetry and thought about what it would be like to have a "real" blog. Seeing friends come home and wondering what it would be like to have a "real" homecoming talk. I had made a promise to myself that I would not make anyone feel the way I feel when the authenticity of my mission has been questioned. The problem is that I don't always see myself as I see other people. I try not to see people as the arbitrary labels I seem to willingly place on myself. Things I would never use to define those around me, I accept as truth when it comes to me.
I am not my health conditions.
I am not my job position.
I am not my mission call.
I am not my weight or my age.
Who I am goes far beyond red lipstick and stilettos, messy buns and cat shirts, leggings and dinosaur socks.
Who I am is not defined by who I date, or who I follow on Instagram.
My potential is not defined by my gender, or religious affiliation, or favorite show on Netflix.
I am my goals and aspirations.
I believe that how I respond to pain, loss, heartache, disappointment, and tribulation is evidence of who I am. I will tell you that I don't respond well to any of these things, but I am a lot better at it than I was six months ago, let alone a year, which gives me hope.
I left something beautiful three-hundred forty-seven days ago. I miss it.
However, over the past year, I have caught myself having that very conversation with myself. As I read someone else's writing, or poetry and thought about what it would be like to have a "real" blog. Seeing friends come home and wondering what it would be like to have a "real" homecoming talk. I had made a promise to myself that I would not make anyone feel the way I feel when the authenticity of my mission has been questioned. The problem is that I don't always see myself as I see other people. I try not to see people as the arbitrary labels I seem to willingly place on myself. Things I would never use to define those around me, I accept as truth when it comes to me.
I am not my health conditions.
I am not my job position.
I am not my mission call.
I am not my weight or my age.
Who I am goes far beyond red lipstick and stilettos, messy buns and cat shirts, leggings and dinosaur socks.
Who I am is not defined by who I date, or who I follow on Instagram.
My potential is not defined by my gender, or religious affiliation, or favorite show on Netflix.
I am my goals and aspirations.
I believe that how I respond to pain, loss, heartache, disappointment, and tribulation is evidence of who I am. I will tell you that I don't respond well to any of these things, but I am a lot better at it than I was six months ago, let alone a year, which gives me hope.
I left something beautiful three-hundred forty-seven days ago. I miss it.
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