Falling in Love: An Intro
Written for Smart Girls by Brittany Packnett
My whole timeline knows I’m in love.
Anyone connected with me on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook (I’m a sporadic Snapper at best) knows that I’ve fallen head over heels in love with a man who is as brilliant as he is kind, makes my belly ache with his 90s sitcom humor, is patient with me during my consistent overreactions and unnecessary stress, and never lets me settle. Falling in love is the most glorious, magical, spectacular feeling on the planet, and my partner reminds me everyday of exactly why all the love songs are true.
And none of this is about him.
Someone asked me about the last best choice I’ve made. As a black woman, activist and professional, recently taking on the journey of unexpected national visibility at what I hope is still a relatively young age, (I’m 29. Nah, I’m really 32, but I hope you believed me), she wasn’t just asking me about which new restaurant I had fallen in love with (a wonderful little chain called & Pizza) or if my fitness regimen had changed with the new year (It didn’t. See: & Pizza).
She was asking me, as a fellow woman of color, how was I handling it all? How was I dealing with the risks of choosing to have scary conversations about race and justice in an even scarier world? How was I not blowing a gasket with every troll?
How was I not beaten back everyday when black women get insulted everyday just for doing our jobs- even when our jobs are in the House of Representatives or the White House Press Briefing Room?
How are you not exhausted? How are you still standing? How are you still upright, with all you stand to lose? What did you do-what choice did you make- that has kept you getting up everyday and choosing this work?
I didn’t know that this was my answer until I said it:
I chose to love myself.
Radically.
Always.
Every time.
I chose to love myself so radically that I was forced to remember that I am worth more than whatever I might lose.
You see, it wasn’t enough just to love myself.
I had to recognize that as a woman, with a big job and a platform, my presence was radical-so my love would have to match. When women have the audacity to do anything outside of the norm do so at our own peril-always with a level of risk.
Our partners may lack understanding. Our womanly responsibilities may not have room for our glass ceiling shattering. Our colleagues may not always know how to follow our lead. The media may forget to include our genius in the story. As a woman of color, there is a double burden that makes my mere existence in so many spaces the most radical of ideas. All one needs to do is take a look at #BlackWomenAtWork to know what I mean.
Thus, only radical self-love would do. Self-love that flies in the face of the harsh opposition women -and women of color- face daily as we rise to contribute to a world that too often underpays, over-sexes and under recognizes us. It was radical to believe that I was worthy- and to practice my own worth, every single day. This world teaches women that we are expendable play objects for someone else’s entertainment and pleasure. The decision to be myself, instead, is a radical choice- a choice I had to meet with self- love so thick, it could block the rest of it out.
I was hoping seizing that kind of self-love-the kind that alluded me most of my life- would be like (#BlackGirl)Magic. I figured I’d experience a supernatural epiphany, instantaneously have perfect eyebrows, and erase all my insecurities with the ease of an iPhone edit. After all-every other woman online seems to have it figured out with a filter to match. To be my authentically human self, in my highs and my broken places, didn’t seem to fit the algorithm of perfectly curated square photos to which I aspired.
But loving myself radically helped me redefine my win. My aspiration was no longer Insta perfection- it was peace.
Here’s where you are either rolling your eyes or panting with anticipation, expecting a tweetable zen-like conclusion, fit for an OWN special.
I don’t have one. Couldn’t make one if I tried. I haven’t even read The Secret. I never journal.
I don’t have any cleverly packaged, commercially spiritual platitudes to sell to you on how to do this. Girl, this was WORK.
W. O. R. K.
Hard work.
The kind you sometimes wish you hadn’t signed up for. The kind that brings you face to face with some truths about yourself and your life that you would much rather have ignored (like my growing waistline and obsession with & Pizza). This was therapy and tears and conversations and more tears and confusion and passing tests and failing tests and WORK.
I don’t have a playbook. All I have is my story.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing it. I’ve decided that, after all that hard work, I should write it down somewhere. And maybe, you’ll want to read it. Or even share your own.
This is me, falling in love with myself.
Tune in Next Thursday for Chapter 1: Other:
Brittany Packnett is an educator, activist, writer, full-time proud black woman and 90’s R&B connoisseur based in Washington, DC. She is Vice President of National Community Alliances at Teach For America and Co-Founder of Campaign Zero. She recently taught herself how to design a few things. Find her apparel at buildloveandpower.com, and her musings on social media @MsPackyetti.
