I Was Trying My Hardest but Pretending Not to Care

This post is the third in a series. (Please read the posts here and here first, if you haven’t yet!)

I wanted his sister to like me. I wanted it so badly it hurt. Before I met her for the first time, I bought a new pair of tight, stylish jeans and pointed-toe shoes. I bought a new shirt, too, but didn’t wear it that night; I didn’t want to seem like I was trying too hard. (But, really, I was trying my hardest.) I listened to This is Me on repeat in the car as I drove to the city, and it occurred to me that I was more nervous for this meeting with Andrés’ sister than I had been for our own first date. Which makes some sense, given that I already knew I liked Andrés. There was more on the line.

The nerves did not settle when I finally met her at that trendy Thai restaurant. If anything, I felt more agitated. She was outgoing, stunning, glamorous, charismatic. Suddenly, my new jeans and shoes felt drab in comparison. And my personality? I felt invisible next to her. Generic. And so, I crawled into myself. I made myself small. I shared almost nothing.

Andrés had told me she could be judgmental; she was a protective sister. But after a couple of hours eating and drinking and chatting, I warmed up slightly, began to relax. Began to share little tidbits. Risking a little, but not a lot.

“What did you think?” he asked me afterwards.

“She’s really sweet.” I said. “I felt uncomfortable at first, but it got better.”

We moved on from the evening, and life continued per usual, until one day; Andrés reported he had hung out with his sister.

“What did she think of me?” I wondered.

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe he shouldn’t have told me. I wished for months afterward that I could unhear the words that followed; they hurt me deeply. She told Andrés that she thought I would get lost amongst their family and friends. That he needed a more powerful girlfriend to stand up to him and call him out. That she didn’t think I was strong enough to be with him.

I don’t think she was right about these things, but I understand how she might have come to that conclusion of me, based on our limited time together. I only wish she could have known me, the real me, before developing these judgments.

She didn’t, in part because I didn’t let her.

With the understanding that a couple years’ distance can bring, these memories are a little less tender to the touch. I’m proving to myself that I am strong enough. I’m powerful enough. I’m enough.