By Donna Bartos 
I spent most of my life chasing this perfect woman who I could never be. Her name was Autumn. I can still see her through my 11-year-old eyes, standing on the grass at the park near the little house where we used to pay for our swimming wristbands.
Autumn had long legs that reached up to her size 00 and perfectly fitted jean shorts— not tight, not loose—they sort of danced with her as she walked. She wore a white mid-drift tee shirt, had long, perfect hair, small features, small calves (she definitely didn’t need plus-sized knee boots), great skin, and was not mean or nice. It would’ve been easier if she had been mean. I could’ve focused on her flaws instead of my own insecurities.
I don’t think I ever actually spoke to her. I just stared from a distance, wishing I was pretty like her so that maybe I wouldn’t be so embarrassed and someone I liked would want me.
At 39, I just realized I’ll never be an Autumn. But it took a lot of triggers, pain, and self-work to get clarity.
My first childhood boyfriend liked Autumn. He would talk about how perfect she was, and then when the opportunity came for him to hang out in her friend group, he took it. Although my feelings for him are long gone, it still hurts my chest when I think back. Little me still wishes she was the one that was good enough.
Years later, during my first serious relationship, my then-boyfriend mentioned her name once too—something about “being with a girl like her.” I felt embarrassed to be seen. I wanted to run, but I was so afraid of being alone that I just stayed still, waiting for my entire body to stop burning. I thought it was a sick joke. It’s like her ghost was following me, reminding me how I’ll never be the one, anyone’s number one.
But looking back, I see that God was showing me more than I could understand at the time, more than I was willing or equipped to see. God was allowing me to feel less than throughout my life—He’s still allowing the raw sensation in my chest and flare-ups of these feelings in seemingly innocent interactions—because He wants to draw that pain out of me. Because there will always be Autumns, the one we think they all want.
And our Autumn isn’t just the 13-year-old girl with the little blue jean shorts; she’s the face of our insecurities. It’s the woman at your husband’s job who seems to have it all together, the woman at the pool with the flat stomach and giant boobs, the outgoing woman at church who just doesn’t seem to ever age (she eats berries and raw peppers as a snack), the younger woman your husband may have glanced at for a second too long, just long enough to remind you that you’ll never be 22 again.
We don’t have to hide from these feelings; they don’t make us crazy or irrational. They are signs that parts of us are still wounded and need validation and compassion. We’ve been carrying the weight of not good enough before we could articulate what was happening. It will take a lifetime of love to heal those old wounds and tend to the new ones as they come up.
Now, at 39, I’m in a camp of either aging gracefully or shelling out money for Botox and cheek implants. It doesn’t ever end. It will only end when we choose to let go of our Autums and focus on how worthy we are—not because of how we look or how much we can do, but because it’s time.
Isn’t it time to focus on the good in you? No one else can validate you. And even if they could, would you believe them? Not until you quiet that voice that says you’re not good enough and instead focus on everything that proves you are.
by Krystal Sieben 
by Emily Donehoo 
by Amy Weatherly 
