I try so hard to do all the right things and somehow it still feels wrong

Sometimes I find myself trying so hard to be the person I am supposed to be.

The person who is gentle.

And patient.

Demure.

Quiet.

Soft-spoken.

The kind woman you want to be around.

The kind of woman who is accepted and loved.

A client once asked me what tree I would be if I were a tree.

It's been years since she asked.

I haven't been able to answer that question.

And the reason is that I don't like the answer.

I already know I don't.

Without even knowing the answer.

Because the tree I want to be is a willow.

But I know I'm not a willow.

A willow tree is beautiful and sways in the wind. It's soft and flexible. It just goes with whatever wind comes its way.

I love that.

And I have worked hard to become that.

I've tried to quiet my voice and make my face more pleasant.

No RBF.

But emotions don't quiet.

And I've never had a good poker face.

I've filtered my deep and dark thoughts to be lighter and somehow whispery.

But somehow the dark edges are still there.

If I could make myself smaller, I would have.

Less imposing.

Less noticeable.

The kind of woman who somehow seemed to take up exactly the right amount of space.

I've tried to soften my sarcasm and be more positive and cheerful.

Cry for others.

Not yourself.

Your life is great, and if it's not, smile and pretend it is.

Be there for others.

Don't need support.

Go with the flow.

Be flexible and accommodating.

Effortlessly.

And be happy about it.

Don't question things.

Just support.

Even dumb ideas.

But don't think they're dumb.

Smile.

Nod.

Support.

Hug.

I don't like hugs.

I tried anyway.

And I feel like maybe I had some success?

I don't know.

Because my insides never matched my outside.

And the more I tried to force myself to be these things I needed to be, the more disconnected from myself I felt.

Like I was putting on a mask.

And when people saw and liked that mask?

It felt pretty scary to take off.

Impossible, actually.

What would they see if they saw the real me?

How quickly would they run?

I'm not a willow.

I never was.

And I probably never will be.

But I wish I was.

The flexibility I have...

It's hard-earned.

I have deep roots and large, unruly branches that have had to learn how to move in the wind.

I haven't liked my gnarled branches.

Or my deep roots.

Or my broad, outward growth.

So why would I think anyone else would?

I wanted to grow like all the other trees.

Upward.

Not outward.

Not because I particularly care which direction I grow.

I just wanted to be accepted.

And it seemed like every other tree could be understood in a way I never could.

Now, I know it's okay to be different.

I tell people that all the time.

And I really believe it.

It's okay that you're not a willow.

It's okay that you are whatever tree you are.

Tree variety is great.

For other people.

But for me?

I don't want to be different.

I want to be liked.

Loved.

Accepted.

And being different didn't really seem to get me that.

Not in the ways I was different anyway.

People, experiences, genetics...

They've shaped me in ways I never wanted to be shaped or defined.

And I felt shaped and defined by them.

So I didn't want to think about what tree I'd be because I didn't think I'd like the answer.

I didn't want to see the version of the real me in tree form.

I didn't want one more reminder of all the ways I hadn't managed to become her.

What got me to do it?

I don't really know.

In all honesty, I was feeling particularly shitty one day and thought, Well, let's see what else you can heap onto yourself that you can say you don't like and can't change about who you are.

And you know what?

It was exactly what I thought it'd be.

In a way.

I think I'm a bur oak.

An oak.

Ugh.

Maybe you like oaks.

I don't blame you.

But an oak, to me, is the least desirable form of basic you can get.

That's how I interpreted it anyway.

A bur oak is gnarled and big.

Its root system is deep and extensive.

Its branches spread outward, twisting and bending as it grows.

And the result isn't that gorgeous wispiness I've always admired.

It isn't delicate.

Its growth is slow.

Its branches have some give, but they aren't overly flexible.

I wouldn't describe it as demure or quiet.

It's not immovable, but it is deeply rooted.

It's adaptable and capable of growing through conditions that aren't particularly accommodating.

It's built for endurance and expansion.

And it is...

distinctly itself.

So I guess there are parts that I like about that.

Parts I'm good with.

And I do see myself in the description.

I don't love it though.

Not all of it.

And I don't think I have to.

One, because I am actually not a tree.

But two, because why do we have to love every aspect of ourselves?

Even—maybe especially—the aspects we can't change?

I'm not a willow.

I still kind of want to be.

And I don't love every part of the bur oak either.

But when I look at it...

I recognize myself.

And maybe I can lean into that.

Maybe I can make a little peace with being the tree I actually am instead of spending another few years trying to become the one I thought I should be.

Because even though I don't like every part of it—

it feels like me.

And somehow, that feels better than being a willow.

—Julia