I was thinking about how I used to smoke cigarettes.

First with my friends, in the woods, so I could “fit in.” Then, kind of all the time. Later, just at parties.

My mother hated this, so I never let her know. Even though she knew.

When my rebellious youth wore off, I wished I could just stop. Especially after I had my first baby, I wished I could just be “good” for him the way my mother defined it. Non-smoking.

I hated how the habit and the people could steal me back after a few drinks though, just because I was out of my house and away from my keeper. (First my mother, but now my baby.)

I hated waking up to that smell. The moment I noticed it, my heart pounding with anxiety and shame. The stench of my poor self control.

I didn’t want my baby to smell this. Evidence of agency I should have as his mother, but don’t.

But I don’t do that anymore.

I stopped.

I stopped in the way that I don’t even decide not to now, I just don’t. I’m not even in community with people who trigger it, when did that happen?

When did my outsides finally align with my insides? (Or would it be the other way around?)

I was thinking about how I used to smoke cigarettes—how weird that is—and it made me wonder: Maybe in due time the Mean Voice can become as estranged?

It’s my own afterall, but it didn’t start out as mine. It started the same time as the cigarettes, now that I think of it. Right there in the woods as I took my first drag…

I’m not 13 years old in a seventh grade hellscape anymore, though. Or 18, leaving home and trying to identify any sort of bond with brand new friends. Or 22, in front of the Illustrator class on Critique Day.

I’m not 23, charging standard fees for my first freelance job and pissing off someone who expected a mate-rate. A 23-yr-old, art-school-student, mate-rate.

Those voices were proven wrong a long time ago. I’ve beat them, kept going, been paid well and received appreciation for the things I create.

I’ve heard the words, “how I needed this today.”

I’ve been hired and reached out to. I’ve even won a couple awards.

I’ve seen my work blown up on giant screens in ballrooms. It’s been projected behind me while I braved the mountain of public speaking.

I’ve seen it on consumer products and social media props.

I’ve seen it marching down streets on tee-shirts and picket signs.

It’s been delivered to the mailboxes of tens of thousands of homes, passed around on flyers, built out on websites.

The Mean Voice is wrong, frankly.

I wonder when when my knowing this will convince my body and brain?

I wonder when the insides can catch up to the reality of the outside?

I wonder if one day, like smoking, the Mean Voice can just be a bad habit I used to have…