This Chick

To everyone so eager to cancel someone for a tattoo they got at age 22, a drunk text, a selfie they took in the middle of a mental health crisis: Show us your laptop. Show us your iCloud. Open your entire digital life to your worst enemy. No context. No filter. No explanation. You won’t. You won’t because you know what I know. Any one of us, frozen at our worst moment, photographed in our lowest hour, looks like a monster. Looks like a stranger. Looks like someone who deserves to be cast out. That is not who we are. My mom and baby sister were killed in a car accident when I was just a kid. Cancer took my brother Beau, my best friend and my rock. I battled alcoholism. I battled addiction. I chose the coward’s way out more times than I can count. For years I believed the defining chapters of my life were written by tragedy, loss, and shame. I no longer believe that. Pain can shape us. Loss can humble us. Failures can leave scars that never fully fade. But none of them have the authority to define us. And it sure as hell ain’t the critic that counts. That authority belongs to us alone-the person in the arena. Every setback presents a choice. Play the victim, or cut the bullshit and take ownership for who we become next. Life does not determine our character. It reveals it. Again and again we are asked the same question. When shit happens, what next? We are not defined by what happened to us. We are not defined by the worst photo, the worst text, the worst tattoo, the worst night. We are defined by the person we choose to become. And by the courage to choose that person, every single day. So before you reach for the gavel - show us your laptop. You won’t. The whole world saw mine. And I am still here. Still becoming. Still choosing. Still standing. That is the only definition that matters.