While I identify as being an introvert (and feel safest when alone), I’ve been blessed since I was a teenager with good people who have carried me through the toughest of times. When I was still in eighth grade my friends gathered together to confront me about my drinking, expressing their concerns. (I didn’t seek help at that point, but recognized later the love in this pseudo-intervention.) In high school, when I reported my uncle for sexual abuse, my friends witnessed my rage and fear and shame, and cared for me right on through all of it. When I finally decided I needed to clean up my act, my best friend gave me a ride to rehab – and yanked me back into the car as we travelled at 55 mph and I had decided to exit the vehicle. (Thank you Karis – I’m forever indebted to you.)

When I was a young adult, my peer group continued to support me, but also the oldtimers saw through my rough exterior and dragged me into the middle of the recovery community. Years later, when recovering from a terrible car accident, people I didn’t even yet recognize as friends showed up at my house to make sure I was ok, bringing me food, cleaning my home and keeping me company. Later, while still recovering and rather immobile, I moved to New Hampshire, where I was soon surrounded by new people, who helped with rides and offered friendship. I found loving, supportive people in college, in my work life, and amongst my neighbors.

I know that part of the reason I have been so blessed is I have worked hard to be that friend – the one who someone can reach out to for love and support. When I say the Peace Prayer of St. Francis, I ask to “seek to love, rather than be loved … for it is through self-forgetting that one finds.” In fact, this prayer resonated with me long before I could accept any kind of god into my life.

I often do the right thing for the wrong reason, or maybe the wrong thing for right reason. I’m not worried about heaven or hell. I’ve lived through some really tough stuff, and I sometimes believe in hell on earth. I don’t think some of us are chosen (that would mean some of us aren’t), or that we’re suffering for some greater purpose (what kind of loving god would do that?). I do slip up, though, and carry immense shame and guilt inside of me. I set my own bar very high.

Mental health professionals will concur – perfectionism is often shame-based. Mine sure is. I could spend hours reciting all that I’ve done wrong in the world, and all the ways I’ve failed to measure up. I spent my youth believing that the abuse I suffered was because God hated my guts, not because the perpetrators were sick themselves. I thought it was all supposed to happen that way, and proof that my soul was marked. I believed I was evil incarnate.

Core beliefs are difficult to overcome, and I’m working on it. Yet there’s still this inner little one that believes God hates me. I overachieve not to prove that I’m better than, but to prove that I’m good enough. I cannot achieve perfection, however, and when I fall short it taps right into that 6-year-old who sees my shortcomings as evidence of brokenness, unworthiness, and failure. The shame cycle repeats.

But today – as it has been for decades of my life – I’m surrounded by friends who carry me through. The inspirational author Alan Cohen has said, “Those who love you are not fooled by mistakes you have made or dark images you hold about yourself. They remember your beauty when you feel ugly; your wholeness when you are broken; your innocence when you feel guilty; and your purpose when you are confused.”

And while I truly believe that it is better to seek to love rather than to be loved, I am still deeply grateful for all the love and grace that is extended to me, especially when shame overwhelms me. I can feel that today, and appreciate it.