Apparently, Some Boys Did Like Me

Growing up, my insecurities did not feel like thoughts I was having. They felt like facts.

I did not think, Maybe I am being too hard on myself. I thought, No, this is simply an accurate assessment of the situation.

I owned a mirror, after all.

I worried about how I looked, how I spoke, what I wore, and whether I truly belonged anywhere. During childhood and adolescence, the smallest details felt enormous. Looking back now, the things I analyzed are almost impressive in their ridiculousness.

The brand of someone’s clothing.
Who stood beside whom in line.
What kind of car their parents drove.
Whether their house had an upstairs.
How many siblings they had.
The exact tone someone used when they said “hi.”

I was basically an unpaid private investigator specializing in evidence that everyone else was better than me.

For most of my conscious life, I believed I was less attractive, less interesting, and less likable than the people around me. I moved through school, friendships, family gatherings, and eventually adulthood with the quiet assumption that other people did not see much value in me.

Why would they? In my mind, I was not as beautiful, capable, smart, funny, thin, elegant, or charming as anyone else.

Again, I owned a mirror.

I was quiet, a little too tall, and definitely not naturally thin (although I would give me life savings to have the body back that I hated at 19). I was not the kind of girl who seemed to float effortlessly through a room while her hair blew gently in a breeze that somehow existed indoors. I was more likely to walk into a doorframe and then pretend I had meant to do it.

What I did not understand was how thoroughly my insecurities distorted my perception of reality. I did not simply feel badly about myself. I interpreted every interaction through the assumption that nobody could possibly be interested in me.

Particularly boys.

Looking Back at All the Signs I Missed

When I look back on my young adulthood now, I sometimes feel sad thinking about the roads I did not take. A few of the men I ran from, dismissed, or completely misunderstood were some of the best human beings I have ever known.

At 19, I decided to become an electrician like my father. I had a blessed career and spent years working on job sites surrounded by quite literally dozens of eligible men.

I was friendly with them every day. I was invited out for drinks, poker nights, parties, and random adventures. I was treated well, and, at the risk of flattering myself, I was probably about as ideal a female coworker as a male tradesman could ask for.

I worked hard. I did not mind getting dirty. I anticipated what needed to be done, kept projects organized, and was bright, agreeable, quiet, and pleasant.

Basically, I was useful, low-drama, and knew how to use power tools. A rare and apparently attractive combination.

I can now recall instance after instance of men going out of their way to help me, talk to me, spend time with me, share a look, or find a reason to touch my arm or back outside of work.

It happened everywhere.

Someone would ask me to dance at a club, and I would say no because I assumed he was being charitable.

Charitable.

As though there were a federal program requiring attractive men to dance with insecure women.

Guys came to help me with projects at my house without being asked. They remembered my favourite drinks and brought them to me “just because.” They found reasons to be near me, stayed longer than necessary, and offered help I had not requested.

And I thought, What a thoughtful and unusually committed friend.

At no point did my brain consider the possibility that a man might actually like me. That explanation was apparently too unrealistic. It made more sense that he had driven across town with my favourite drink because he was deeply passionate about hydration.

Because I had already decided that I was not someone men would be interested in, I dismissed every sign that suggested otherwise. My insecurities did not simply affect how I felt about myself. They determined what I believed was possible.

Looking back, it is almost funny how convincing our minds can be. Once we accept something negative about ourselves, we become extremely talented at explaining away any evidence to the contrary.

The Realization and Its Impact

Unfortunately, these insecurities did not disappear when I became an adult. They followed me into my relationships and quietly helped me make some terrible decisions.

I chose men who treated me not just poorly, but cruelly. I begged cheaters to stay and liars to love me. Meanwhile, I ran from men who showed signs that they would care for me, protect my heart, or treat me gently.

My reasoning, though I would not have admitted it at the time, was simple: if a good man genuinely liked me, there must be something wrong with him.

A healthy thought process. No notes.

To be completely honest, even my choice of husband came, at least partly, from that same place.

He is a stunning man. From the first day I saw him until now, I have never been more attracted to anyone. But somewhere beneath that attraction was the old question I had been asking my entire life:

How could a man like that possibly want me?

And yet, he did.

But he is not a gentle man. He is not a soft man. He does not handle emotional or vulnerable moments well like - at all. Over time, our relationship has often become one in which I feel I must constantly do enough to be worth staying for.

Cook enough.
Clean enough.
Support enough.
Raise our children well enough.
Be calm enough.
Need little enough.
Become enough.

There is probably an entire book hiding inside that sentence.

Maybe I will write it one day.

For now, the reason I wanted to write all of this is that, at 33 years old and as a mother of two boys, I finally feel as though I understand myself—and perhaps the world around me—more clearly than I ever have.

I understand now that confidence is not something you either have or you do not. It develops slowly through experience, self-awareness, disappointment, healing, and occasionally realizing 15 years too late that a man was very obviously flirting with you.

My childhood insecurities taught me about the complexity of affection, validation, and vulnerability. They taught me how easily we can mistake kindness for pity when we do not believe ourselves worthy of love.

They also taught me how dangerous it can be to distrust the people who value us while chasing approval from those who withhold it.

Maybe this is why I decided to do 75 Hard in the first place. I think, for me, it is really about keeping promises to the woman I spent most of my life criticizing. Every completed day is a small act of choosing her instead of trying to punish or improve her into someone more deserving. I am beginning to understand that the strongest version of me may not be a thinner or more beautiful one. She may simply be the version who finally believes herself, trusts herself, and stops treating her worth like something she has to earn.

Embracing the Past

I do not want to feel ashamed of the awkward, uncertain girl I used to be.

She was not foolish. She was trying to understand the world with the limited information she had, and unfortunately, most of that information came from her own very unreliable internal narrator.

Her insecurities were not proof that she was unwanted, unlovable, or alone. They were proof that she had not yet learned to see herself clearly.

As adults, we have an opportunity to look back with compassion and reclaim the stories we once misunderstood.

The qualities we believed were flaws may have been the exact things others loved about us. The attention we dismissed as pity may have been genuine affection. The moments we interpreted as rejection may not have been rejection at all.

And the boys I assumed were simply being kind?

Well.

Some of them probably were.

But some of them absolutely liked me.

It only took me about 20 years to notice.