Maybe We Were Never Meant to Fit In

Turns out, there were quite a few versions of me before I became a Mum. And they're all still part of who I am.

I had one of those thoughts in the shower this week.

You know the ones. You're washing your hair, thinking about absolutely nothing important, and suddenly your brain decides now would be an excellent time to solve life.

And the thought was quite simple.

Maybe so much of what we want in life is simply to be accepted for who we are.

Not necessarily liked by everyone. That's different.

Accepted.

I've been thinking a lot lately about who I am and where all the different parts of my life fit.

I'm an accountant. A mum. A wife. A maker. A writer. I love practical things and pretty things. I can talk tax and skincare. I can make fabric-covered buttons and wear a red lip. I care deeply about community, mental health and helping people. And depending on when you met me, you may know a completely different version of me.

Because that's the thing about knowing someone.

When exactly did you know them?

If you've met me sometime in the past 19 years, a large part of the Brooke you've known has probably been Mum Brooke.

And Mum Brooke has had a job to do.

She's had to protect. Organise. Discipline. Say no. Make decisions that weren't always popular. Get people where they needed to be. Remember all the things. Worry about all the things. And generally keep life moving.

But she isn't the only Brooke there's ever been.

Before children, I worked full-time (and then some) but I also volunteered. A lot. I was involved with community organisations and events. I played sport. I got involved. I contributed. I had a life that looked quite different from the one I've lived during the intensive years of raising children.

Since having children, I've continued working part-time, but motherhood naturally took up much of the space that other things once occupied.

And now, as my children get older and need me differently, I can feel some of that woman returning.

Although perhaps returning isn't quite the right word.

Maybe she's been here all along.

There are also much younger versions of me that I carry.

School wasn't an easy time for me. I was teased for who I was, where I came from and what I looked like. Those years left bruises that aren't visible, but every now and then something presses exactly the right spot and you discover they're still tender.

It's probably why acceptance matters to me.

It's probably part of why Be Real, Not Perfect. Be Kind. Be Brave. Be Yourself. became more than a collection of nice words.

And perhaps it's why, even now, being reduced to somebody else's small impression of who I am can still sting more than I'd like it to.

But getting older has given me something my younger self didn't have.

Perspective.

Someone can know a version of me without knowing me.

Just as I can know a version of somebody else without knowing everything that came before it.

We're all carrying decades of stories that aren't immediately visible.

The woman you meet at the school gate isn't only somebody's mum.

The woman sitting behind the desk isn't only her job title.

The woman selling something isn't only a salesperson.

The quiet woman wasn't necessarily always quiet.

The confident woman may have spent years feeling anything but.

The woman starting something new at 40, 50, 60 or 70 isn't necessarily reinventing herself. She might simply be making room for a part of herself that hasn't had much room lately.

Maybe that's what I've been doing.

I've spent quite a bit of time recently trying to make all the pieces of my life fit neatly together. Even my website has presented the problem: accounting over here, Buttons by Brooke over there, skincare and makeup somewhere else, then writing, community, family and everything in between.

Which box does Brooke belong in?

And I've finally realised that's the wrong question.

I don't need to fit in a box.

Neither do you.

Yes, there are places in life where we have responsibilities. Workplaces have rules. Families require compromise. Communities function because we consider people other than ourselves. Being yourself isn't permission to behave however you please and expect everyone else to accommodate you.

But there's a big difference between consideration and pretending.

We shouldn't have to make ourselves smaller, quieter, less colourful, less enthusiastic, less creative, less intelligent, less ourselves simply to make it easier for somebody else to accept us.

Perhaps that's one of the gifts of getting older.

You begin to realise that fitting in isn't actually the prize.

Living a life that feels like yours is.

I've been many versions of Brooke already, and I'm sure there are more to come.

The schoolgirl.

The young woman finding her feet.

The accountant.

The volunteer.

The community person.

The wife.

The mum.

The maker.

The writer.

And whatever this next version turns out to be.

None of them need to compete for space.

They're all me.

So maybe the goal isn't to finally become the person everyone else understands.

Maybe it's to know yourself well enough that you no longer require them to.

Take me as I am, or leave me behind.

I'm going to keep trying to live my best life, in the best way I know how, in whatever season I'm in.

And if you're somewhere in the middle of figuring out who you are now too, perhaps you don't need another box to squeeze yourself into.

Perhaps you just need permission to climb out of it.

Be real, not perfect. Be kind. Be brave. Be yourself.