An Accusation. A Truth.

My sister-in-law’s ice-blue eyes sparkled in the silhouette of the aquarium behind us as she turned to my boyfriend and said, “You know, AJ has low self-esteem.” I was mortified. I know she spoke other words that dangled in and around that sentence, but all I heard was: AJ. Has. Low self-esteem. She might as well have jumped up from the table, belted out “Yepa-yepa-yeap” like a Mariachi performer, and then shrieked for all to hear, “Hey, let’s cheer to the loser at table six. Give it up to the bottle-blonde failure.”

I thought of only one thing while my face turned Jersey tomato red and smoke poured out of my ears.

Bitch.

Then I lashed out in defense. I don’t remember what I said. Something along the lines of “No I’m not,” but in a very defensive tone and with more and big words so I sounded smart. The truth was, I was embarrassed. Humiliated. I felt I had to do damage control and quickly salvage this broken, ugly, and messy portrait of me. I didn’t want my beau to even slightly entertain the notion that I questioned my self-worth. Honestly, I didn’t want to hear it myself. It made me cringe and took me on a supersonic trip down memory lane…reminding me of things I did to myself that I’d rather since forget.

I continued to defend myself with much passion, even taking verbal jabs at my sister-in-law here and there out of spite. I was on a roll. My boyfriend tried to step in. From the corner of my right eye, I saw him try to aim a forkful of cheddar cheese-topped crabmeat toward my mouth. I was actually offended. Did he think I was a pig? That I was so pathetic that I’d trade my defensive monologue for a bite of greasy goodness? For Pete’s sake, nobody else was stepping in, lifting up sword and shield, to fight for my worth.

A few minutes later, it was over. My sister-in-law and I ironed out that accusatory wrinkle. Only it happened after I was able to crawl out of my foxhole of self-protection to actually hear the point she was trying to make. Do you know what this woman—who has known me since I was thirteen—was really saying?

That it was a shame that I wasn’t able to see how creative and smart and beautiful and talented and dedicated and hard-working she thought I was. That I didn’t give myself enough credit for my accomplishments. That she admired me. That she thought I was an amazing woman. And that she wished I would stop questioning myself and simply enjoy me. That I needed to be reminded of how important it was to keep believing in myself.

I was touched. I shed some salty discharge. And though it happened in December of last year, I’ve not been able to get that conversation out of my mind.

Sure. Self- image and esteem have been things I’ve struggled with for many years. It’s a thorn in my side. But I’ve come a long way, baby, and I’m continuing to dare to believe in myself. My sister-in-law, in her inimitable way, reminded me that I still have to beware the demons and ghosts on my shoulder that hiss terrible things in my sometimes sensitive ear. It’s something I need never to forget.

It’s an interesting road, this thing called believing in yourself. I’m quickly realizing that it is, at least for me, a battle for my life…and my future.