I’ll stay over here on my lonely mom island as long as I need without a Claudia or a Kelley, without tunics or highlight appointments, because those just aren’t me.
If that is you, awesome!! I’m so glad you found your people, truly. But I have to start being honest with myself.
Y’all, my people love Jesus and need a therapist.
My people drink wine and curse and are still afraid that their parents will find out (even though they are 38 years old).
My people are outspoken and can come across harsh but they will always tell you the truth in love.
My people are at their best when they are serving others and, though they wrestle with it, they know they HAVE to prioritize taking care of themselves, too.
My people appreciate whole foods but can also eat their body weight in Chik-Fil-A nuggets.
My people enjoy dressing up maybe twice a year and do their best work in yoga pants, the way the Lord intended.
My people have tattoos and also love Starbucks, even if they are ‘the man.’
My people push and advocate and pray and bake lasagna for the marginalized but also live in constant anxiety that they aren’t doing enough.
My people sing their hearts out though they SHOULD reserve their voice for Jesus, know every word to ’90s rap lyrics, and also raise their hands in worship.
My people will cut a b*tch for looking sideways at their kid but always fear they are somehow ruining motherhood altogether.
Y’all, of the billions of folks on this planet, there are VERY few who qualify as my people, and THAT’S OKAY.
It may have taken 38 years, lost friendships, and an untold number of re-watched episodes of Lisa, Jessie, and Kelley to get here, but not everyone is your people.
Sift through the duds, mama. Because once you find those few (or just one) who truly know you — the hilarious AND the cob-webby parts — and love you anyway, you don’t have to pretend anymore. No more playing dress up to be a part of a song and dance you don’t know the words to and don’t want to be a part of anyway.
You can finally breathe and be your full, authentic self. And that, mama, is freedom at its finest. No tribe required.
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This piece originally appeared at The Mama On The Rocks, published with permission.
