Dear wannabe diary,

So here’s the deal: I am that person. The overthinker. The "analyze everything to death and then some" type. You know, the one who replays a casual "Hi, how are you?" interaction in the grocery store for days because maybe my tone was weird, or what if they thought I was fake-cheerful, or—God forbid—did I say it with spinach stuck in my teeth? Spoiler: no one cares. Literally no one. And yet, here I am, still dissecting that moment like it’s a crime scene on CSI.

Childhood: The Gift That Keeps on Haunting

And let’s not even start on my self-esteem. It’s shaky, at best, but I am working on it. Why? Because I refuse to let the ghosts of childhood bullies haunt me forever. Like, yes, I was once called a name in first grade that stung like a slap, and sure, it’s stuck with me for 20+ years. But here’s the kicker—I wasn’t even the quiet kid. Nope. I was the bossy kid. The "let’s organize this playground chaos" kid. And maybe that’s why some people couldn’t stand me. Who knows? People are weird. Kids are mean. And adults...well, they’re just taller versions of both.

Now, as a mom, I’m on a mission to make sure my kid knows she’s a badass. Daily affirmations? Check. Constant encouragement? Double check. Helicopter-mom-level protection from future bullies? Working on it. Because if I can’t erase her pain, I’ll at least make sure she knows she’s worth more than any stupid playground insult.

Living in the Past: My Accidental Superpower

But let’s get back to me, the overthinking train wreck. You know that quote about how living in the past means you can’t enjoy the future? Yeah, I need that tattooed on my forehead. Because I’ll literally lie awake replaying arguments from months ago, imagining all the amazing comebacks I could’ve said. In reality? I froze. Said nothing. Then spent the next three days beating myself up about it.

Oh, and if I’ve had even one glass of wine? Moral hangover the size of Mount Everest. Doesn’t matter if I didn’t say anything remotely embarrassing—my brain will invent reasons to cringe.

Proving Myself: To Me, the Plant, and Everyone Else

Still, I can’t lie: I have this massive need to prove myself. To my family, my friends, strangers on the internet, the plant I keep forgetting to water—literally everyone. But mostly, to me. I want to build a business, crush it, and finally feel like I’m enough. Like I don’t need validation from anyone because I’ve already validated myself. And yeah, maybe that’s not the healthiest motivation, but it’s mine.

So here’s to 2025: the year I wannabe calm, collected, and confident. The year I stop analyzing every awkward interaction and just embrace who I am—spinach-teeth moments and all. Because let’s face it, life’s too short to care what some random stranger in the bread aisle thinks about your "Hi."

That said, it’s already proving tough, because as I’m wrapping up this very post, I’m barely resisting the urge to overanalyze whether it’s inspirational, relatable, or just plain weird. Classic me.

Signing off,
Wannabe Confident (but still rehearsing conversations with the dentist)