I have worried far too long about the judgment and opinions of others, but in all honesty, I’ve been my own worst critic. The “snowballs” that have been hurled my way pelt me from within, and all the while I smile. That “tolerant smile” forgives others but seldom offers me equal absolution.
If I won’t tolerate harsh criticism and judgment from others, why do I endure it from myself? Is it the perfectionist in me? I think not. I think it has long been the inability to get comfortable in my own skin. I’m working on it. I’ll be 63 in a couple of weeks, and I’m counting on it being just the right time to love myself.
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They missed every time, and with that wary judgment that comes with experience, I watched the dirty snowballs coming at me, behind and in front, and, sick with wonder, kept walking slowly, determinedly, ready to parry a good hit before it struck. But none struck, and with a tolerant smile that was a superior lie, I walked on.
~Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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