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Those who would find themselves genuinely excited about simple, fun things are often written off as losers with nothing better to do, while the jaded pat themselves on the back for how mature and intelligent they so obviously are. However, the longer you look at it, the more you begin to notice that it’s quite the opposite.

I find myself in this place again. I am numb. I feel empty. I almost have no words.
In 2012, around the time of the birth of my son, I had a similar feeling. Trayvon Martin was killed. I was pregnant with a black male in a world that was not ready for him.

Sending words into the world is a privilege — as well as a heavy responsibility.

The premise Newman puts forth is that being a perfectionist emanates from a core belief that either one is “not good enough… or that one is ‘unworthy.’” This can develop as a result of “parental criticism or parental indulgence (the latter being constant praise).”

In my work as an entertainment writer, some of the easiest stories are the post-baby body reveals. You know the type: “Within three days of delivery, Celebrity Person shed any trace her womb housing a growing baby for the past 10 months! Look at those abs!”

Where does my love for my body stop and my vanity pick up? If I’d spend $126 in a futile attempt to “resolve” the rosacea I didn’t even know I had, then why not $500 on laser treatment to effectively repair the damage of time? If I’d whiten my teeth, why wouldn’t I spend $4000 on braces? If I’d wear Spanx, would I have an abdominoplasty? A push-up bra or a breast lift? It Works wraps or liposuction?

Body positivity vlogger. Ph.D. pursuer.

You know, I really want to not be writing about this in five years. I hope there won’t be a need.