Let’s get something straight: We talk a lot about confidence, self-love, and “just being yourself”…

But if you’ve ever stared in a mirror and wanted to look away, you know it’s not that simple.

This one’s personal.

Like…punch-you-in-the-gut personal.

Self-esteem is a fucking beast.

And while I’ll be the first to admit that women face an impossible barrage of unrealistic beauty standards (airbrushed, filtered, puffed, plucked, frozen, stretched, trimmed and tucked)—Men don’t exactly get a free ride, either. We’re not allowed to talk about it. We’re supposed to either look like Thor or at least pretend we don’t care that we don’t. Well, fuck that.

I grew up the “new kid.” Every two years, new city, new school. Thanks, military life. From Ontario to Alberta to Germany to BC, I was the chubby kid with bad skin and thinning hair by 17.

Confidence? Yeah, not so much.

Sure, I played hockey. I trained in martial arts. But I never felt good in my skin—or my clothes. I yo-yo dieted like it was a competitive sport, and my relationship with food? Let’s just say it’s like arguing with a sarcastic roommate: You know it’s bad for you, but you keep showing up for dinner anyway.

And even now—with a wife who loves me unconditionally (and will lovingly rip me a new one if I start criticizing myself)—it’s still a battle. She’s my mirror when I forget how to see myself clearly. But that old voice? The one that only sees flaws? Yeah, that bastard still whispers sometimes. Add to that a self-deprecating sense of humour and a front-row seat to everyone else’s dating lives, and boom—welcome to my formative years.

But you know what you learn from sitting on the outside? You learn to see people. You pick up on moods, on pain, on the little microexpressions no one else catches. You learn empathy, the hard way. And eventually, that becomes your superpower.

Did it get me the girl in high school?

Nope.

But it helped me become the kind of man my kids trust. And the kind of friend who can hold space for other people’s mess without flinching.

I’m 53 now. Do I fully love how I look?

Fuck no.

But I’m still here.

And every scar, every grey hair, every wrinkle? It’s something I earned. Something I overcame. Something that didn’t break me.

Here’s the brutal truth:

Self-esteem is a lifelong negotiation. But you are not a product. You are not an algorithm. You are not a number on a scale or a filter on a photo.

You are a fucking original.

One of one.

And if you don’t fit the mold—break the mold.

Own your story.

Celebrate your weird.

Lead with love.

You’re still here. That’s enough. That’s everything.