The music stuff. That’s official. The advice on my love-life? Well, that’s a bonus.

And he’s not the only wonderful guy handing out advice to me lately.

“Are you working on any new songs, Jess?” my pop asks, nonchalantly.

“Yep.”

“Are they sad songs about heartache?” he says, still playing at nonchalance.

“Uh…I guess…kinda…”

“Well, you better find another guy to break your heart soon…I mean, that gives you quite a lot of material,” he says, laughing now. And I am, too, cause we joke about everything in my family. You have to. Otherwise you’d be crying too much, I think.

But I wouldn’t mind a guy who doesn’t break my heart, if it’s all the same to you. 

I visited Rosa’s today with some friends. Rosa’s is a wonderful little Italian restaurant around the corner from my parents’ house. It has the best barbecue chicken pizza I’ve ever had. I am a little obsessed with it. Seriously. My friend Christian gets a little frustrated with me about it, because, I have literally arrived back from Japan and he’s all, “Let’s get lunch! On me! I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go–ANYWHERE.”

I’m all, “Great. Rosa’s, then,” without missing a beat.

And he sighs. Because I think he is expecting me to say something a little fancier or a little less around the corner from where he works. every. day (of the week), or a little–well, not Rosa’s.

But, anyway, I have gained a reputation there for my taste in their pizza. So much so, that they haven’t bothered learning my name. No need, because they have their own for me. Something I realized when I was singing at a bar and the guys from Rosa’s happened to be there, too. They were like, “Barbecue Chicken? We had no idea you could sing like that!”

I was all, Barbecue Chicken? I had no idea you called me that! 

Anyway, today I get a facebook message from Andre, who works at Rosa’s. It says: ‘Barbecue Chicken! Someone posted a video on my wall last week of a girl playing and rapping and singing on the subway–I thought it was great, but only just realized it was you, after you came into the shop today! Way to go, Barbecue Chicken!’

Oh man.

Barbecue Chicken.

I’m kind of honored.

And it could be worse.

My favorite pizza could be extra cheese.

The time goes so quickly; the stars shine with this polished brilliance, like the sky has no wish for any traveler to be turned away, and it burns every last lamp to prove it.

“It’s good to have you home,” my mom tells me.

And then she asks me if the clothes on the pool table are mine. “I don’t think so,” I reply, really hoping it’s so–since I don’t have enough space for the clothes I have that are already accounted for.

“Well, they must be,” she reasons. “The jeans are skinnier than my arms and the underwear is very small and strange.”

My mom has a way with words. 

And so I take the ‘very small and strange’ underwear she hands me; I find a place for the super skinny jeans and realize that I guess I did leave some clothes on the pool table, after all.

And, oh! Did I tell you how, the other night, I dreamt (not once, but TWICE!) that I sang on the Ellen Show?

Because I did.

And I don’t normally remember my dreams so viscerally, but this one, I do.

I was right about to walk onto that stage where the couch and the coffee table sit . And there is Ellen, looking adorable in her tailored trousers and cute button down shirt, when I hear this announcement:

AND THIS IS JESSICA LATSHAW. SHE GOES AROUND SINGING, “BABY, YOU AIN’T MY FRIEND.” SHE MUST BE VERY ISOLATED AND HAVE NO FRIENDS.

It sounded like the announcer felt sorry for me, and, honestly, I did, too, once I heard what he said.

But the good news is that I have many friends and don’t feel isolated at all. In fact, I love a little bit of alone time now and then–it’s akin to breathing–meaning, I find it absolutely necessary. And who knows? Maybe I will sing on the Ellen Show at some point. I mean, as my friend John says: miracles happen, so why not to me? That would certainly make my sister pretty excited. And, who am I kidding, it’d make me pretty excited, too.

Speaking of my sister, isn’t she beautiful?

Yes, I think so, too.

I don’t understand what it is that makes strangers talk to me, but it happens all the time. Just now, when I was about to walk down to the subway, a man blurts out to me, “My wife hates me.”

I stop; those are powerful words, after all.

“I doubt that,” I say. But now that I think about it, I shouldn’t doubt that statement. Many husbands and wives end up hating each other. Love fades so easily. It’s the perfectly healthy, stout little frog that jumped into my very messy closet when I was a little girl. Poor thing had no chance in that maze of clothes with no food or water. I found a sad pile of little frog bones much, much later.

We wonder why, after we’ve hopped blindly into a dark closet–away from any and all nourishment–we find our relationships no longer in tact. Not that I’m an expert. If I’m an expert at anything, it’s finding the frog skeleton. Someday I’d like to find the healthy little frog; someday I’d like to say LOOK! I KEPT HIM ALIVE! And then live happily ever after. I’ll even do the dishes. Well, when I remember. But I probably won’t mow the lawn and I definitely won’t watch tv every night. Sorry, there are just some things I will not do.

The details of our lives are so good at keeping things in perspective, huh? So many people–mostly those who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting in real life–tell me to please “keep it real.” And maybe these people don’t realize that I am the girl who walks around with a large chunk of cheese in her bag. Sure, it’s because I met friends at Whole Foods for dinner, and, seeing the cheese on sale for $2.79, simply had to buy that along with dinner and then stick it in my bag for the rest of the night–but, the fact remains: cheese. In my bag. All night long. Sexy, I know.

I guess what I am saying is that if ever started to think too highly of myself walking around in my super cool earmuffs that make my ears all squishy and warm, then all I need to do it glance into my canvas bag and see a large and orange hunk of cheese. I mean, I don’t think the glamorous women of the world carry around cheese. I might be wrong. Perhaps Madonna, cheese in hand, would say otherwise.

Also, this: every night I go to sleep wearing a retainer in my mouth.

So, I guess my point is that I have found a dead frog in my closet. Both for real AND metaphorically speaking. I walk around with cheese in my bag. I sleep with a retainer. If those things don’t keep it real, then God help us all.

And I have been toting it one-handed all the while. Never knowing it could be any different. Never realizing that life was only one tiny revelation away from being SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Because, see, I go to Sam Ash today. I had to do a gig tonight and was prepared to bring all my instruments. Well, all two of them, anyway. But, I need to buy a stand for my keyboard, and get to talking to the salesman. “How in the world do you guys tote everything around on the subway?” I ask.

“I have a car,” he admits.

Must be nice. 

“But you have a Nord, you say?” he asks, and I confirm.

“Yeah, I got a dolly to roll it around,” I add.

“Why don’t you use the straps?” he says.

“The straps?” I repeat.

“The straps,” he repeats, this time.

“Uh…there are only tiny straps–and I do use them–I grip ‘em with one hand…”

“No, the back pack straps. YOU DO HAVE A NORD, RIGHT?”

“Yeah, a Nord,” I agree.

“And you have the Nord case–the red one?”

I nod.

“Then, use the back pack straps. Wear it on your back. Free your hands.”

“I’ve never seen those straps…” I say, but this time with a little less conviction.

“GIRL,” the salesman says slowly and directly, like he’s speaking to a monkey who is just learning his commands, “UNZIP THE ZIPPERS ON THE BACK. PULL OUT THOSE STRAPS. WEAR. YOUR. NORD. ON. YOUR. BACK.”

I say thank you and decide to try just that when I get back to my apartment. But I don’t expect it to necessarily happen. It’s the heart that is well-acquainted with disappointment that learns to keep things in check; to not rely on much until it’s tangible, you know. Don’t need no backpack strap-less gig bag breaking my heart. Not on an otherwise lovely Monday.

And, wonders of wonders, it works! It feels like magic, unzipping those hidden (well, previously to my eyes, anyway) zippers and pulling out those back pack straps. I strap the thing onto my back and walk proudly around the apartment, showing Betsy how much better my life has gotten in just the last sixty seconds.

You guys, I feel so bamf walking around the city with my keyboard strapped to my back. I mean, to be completely honest, it does get a little heavy after a while, and, not used to having my keys, my uke, and the stand on me in the subway, I did accidentally hit someone with the uke (“YOU GOT MY EYE!” a guy yelled. I felt horrible. But then he told me he was okay. And then I felt better)–but still, I can haul all my stuff all by myself and if that’s not the definition of a strong woman, then I don’t know what is.

And just think–what other revelations are just around the corner, waiting to make life better?

Now, if only my keyboard stand could be folded into ear muffs or something; life would be just about perfect.

FINALLY.

Hubbub.

Song.

On itunes.

People I have never met before buying it and using wonderfully expressive language to tell me that, in so many, words: they like it.

They effing like it.

Can I tell you something? In the spring of this year, I packed one polka dotted suitcase, a canvas tote bag that has now sat on the subway floors more times than I care to think about, and a guitar. I said good-bye to my parents and the dogs and got on the Chinatown bus headed to NYC with tears in my eyes. And then on my face. And then on my shirt. I was reading my copy of The Grief Club and I was thinking how just about everything in life seems to point to this one consuming lesson: LET GO. 

Because you just lose it anyway.

And I guess it’s easier to willingly let something go, than to have it pried from your white-knuckled fingers, huh?

I remember thinking, This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be moving to NYC by myself. He should be with me. And forgive me if I don’t mention exactly who he is right now. But the truth is that in one day–one cataclysmic day–he had left. My dream job (touring with the broadway show, A Chorus Line) had ended, and my house was no longer a home. I felt a deep sense of dysphoria. Actually, let me put it bluntly; crudely, even (cause it was raw, what I felt): I felt like everything I loved had turned to shit. 

But, what do you do? You keep being you. You make things and breathe and make jokes and find life interesting and practice kindness and forgive just as often as you need forgiveness, yourself (which is an awful lot, let’s be real); you appreciate the people who are still here and you learn to live without the people who have gone away; you dream, because god knows that if you stop dreaming, you become a robot and I’ve never heard of a robot moving anyone to tears or falling in love (there was that one robot who could read and that other robot who could kill–but still, we’re more than readers of other stories; more than killers of life); you find inspiration everywhere you are, darnit. EVERYWHERE. And if you haven’t found it, then you look harder, because it’s there–it has to be–because YOU’RE there. And you, we, every last one of us, can be–should be!–inspiring.

And you cry.

You let yourself cry as often as you need to; the pillow is well acquainted with your tears and some days you don’t even bother with mascara because it’s just gonna leave a little trail down your face, anyway.

But you also laugh.

You make fun of the mundane until there is a bit of the sublime in it, now that you’re laughing so hard; you realize that every bit of life matters and that, yes, that’s transcendent. The knowledge that every moment builds something that we call LIFE–and that life is all we have. Life and each other. And the God who gave us both.

You realize all this; it builds a reservoir in your heart. You pull from it when you see other people getting the things you dream of. The men who stay. The broadway shows. The charmed existence that really only looks that way from where you’re standing, anyway. But, like I said, that reservoir makes you realize something powerful: you’re on a journey and the story isn’t over. You don’t drive from Maine to Florida and stop off in Delaware for a spell, look around, only to complain about how Florida doesn’t have alligators, after all. You realize that, it’s okay, there’s no alligators yet–because your journey isn’t over. YET. Florida is still coming. Gators or bust!

So, all this to say, this is one heck of a journey. ALL OF IT. The grief and the joy–they each make the other that much more poignant and significant, I guess. And I have to say that I am grateful that I didn’t stop off in my grief and stay there forever, complaining that Florida has no gators, after all, if I can stretch that metaphor just a little bit further.

I am glad I kept on this journey; I have no idea where it will take me, but I never had, anyway. I thought I did, but life was all like, NOPE. So, nothing much has changed. I am on a journey. There are many bends in the road.

And tonight, I did a little dance in my living room while listening to ‘ain’t my friend.’ I danced in the very same leggings I wore in a certain video that has been making its rounds lately, if you wanna know the truth.

Not that I planned it that way, mind you; but what I have found is that sometimes life turns out better than we’d planned. Way better, actually.

It’s funny, when I wrote this song over the summer, I never imagined so many people would hear it, let alone like it. It was just the way I was feeling at the time.

For me, putting my feelings into words and melodies is like a little bit of redemption NOW. A way of saying, This hurts so much, but maybe it’s worth it–cause look. Here’s a song, now, and that’s directly related to what I was feeling. Couldn’t have one without the other.

It doesn’t necessarily make it easier while you’re in it–but pain can produce good things. Worthwhile things. So what I’ve learned is not to run from your pain, but to sit there. Listen to it. And then use it to make things. Just my two cents.

Ain’t my friend:

Chorus: Baby, you ain’t my friend, and I ain’t your last call, nor can I let my heart wonder how you feel about me at all. Cause you got all your fans, people who are on call, but I ain’t one of them, nor can I let myself pretend…
Oh-oh-oh…baby, you ain’t my friend
Oh-oh-oh

See, I don’t really really wanna just be your friend; we’re either gonna play this game or let the game end. I mean, sure, I’ll be polite and wave as I walk by, but it hurts way too much to act like we’re still fly after everything that happened, that happened between us; you’re so good at pretending while I just make a fuss; now, I ain’t saying that it’s now or it’s never gonna be, I’m just saying that this friendship feels impossible to me. And maybe someday it’ll be just fine between us, but that day ain’t today, and maybe there’s some truth to the way they always say that, baby, you’re from mars, and maybe I’m from, I’m from, I’m from Venus.

Chorus

It’s not like you were wrong when you decided that I didn’t belong next to you, it’s just hard to stand here with you, when I’m not really with you, do you know what I mean? Don’t think I’m trying to be mean–no! I think you’re just great! Too great, in fact, that’s why I take a step back; it’s just a matter of survival as I walk through this new trial, don’t take it personally, cause I’m just trying to live free, to take a deep breath now and feel what I feel. As I keep walking, watch me walking, no I won’t stop. Though you ain’t here–stop with all the fear, I tell myself again and again just as long as you say that you are my friend, so…

Bridge: Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); you live your life now and I’ll be busy living mine; Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); I already got quite enough friends now, thank you, yeah, I’ll be fine, fine, fine….

Chorus.

Chords: chorus/rap: C,G,Amin,F,G (with an occasional extra F and G thrown in for good measure; I trust you to figure out when)

Bridge: Amin, C, Amin, F, G

(yes, the chords are simple…have I mentioned I haven’t playing the ukulele for that long…?)

And there you go.

Peace!

Which begs a question: what’s a normal person?

………

Right. That’s what I suspected.

But! Today, I drank tea and spoke with friends about being pregnant. Well, more like I listened to a friend tell me about being pregnant, not having any experience with it myself. And I listened to another friend talk about meditation and, between the two of those friends, they’ve got healthy down. It doesn’t get much more…organic…than pregnancy…and meditation is good for just about everything a human is. Right? Right.

Anyway.

Many people have been telling me that the little video from the subway that a stranger turned no longer a stranger took of me in which I spur-of-the-moment played one of my songs with a stranger turned…well, he’s still a stranger, cause I can’t find him cause I LOST his number. Because I would LOSE my head if it were not attached to my body. No, correction: I would get my head stuck under mounds and mounds of clothes that are stacked as high as an elephant’s eye within the confines of my tiny room. Oh, but my point to this is that many people have been throwing the word viral around.

“You’re going viral, Jess!” they say.

And I cannot help but think it sounds like I am on the verge of infecting massive amounts of people with something fatal. Which doesn’t sound all that pleasant. And, because I know it’s far from the truth, the thought still makes me laugh just a tiny bit inside. Cause I just think viral is a weird word.

Moving on.

And I must say…about this whole viral thing…well, it’s surreal. I love to sing. One of my earliest memories is singing to my animals. The dogs and cats always seemed to tolerate it, so I guess I just eventually moved on to singing for people. Anyway, if this can lead to making albums–real live albums!–and getting to sing for more people (and heck, maybe even some more cats and dogs, if they’d like!)–then, it’s the stuff of dreams. And that silly phrase comes to mind right now–the one that always sounds so absurd, cause it makes the person sound like they really shouldn’t be standing in the first place if it’s THAT easy to knock them over–but maybe, just maybe, it applies at this moment: you could knock me right over with a feather. Especially a peacock feather–those things look TOUGH.

Oh, and here is a version of ain’t my friend. Cleaner. Recorded on my phone. SO CLASSY. And in the basement laundry room. And you didn’t think it could get any classier.

And also, if you wanna download that laundry-room version of the song, you can go HERE. Many thanks to my friend, Rod Kim (who’s an awesome musician; check him out!), for putting that together. I, myself, do not understand all the whirly twirly ways of the internet, and, had I tried to do this, would probably have gotten so dreadfully lost, that not even Google would be able to find me.

And as for the recording–please don’t expect perfection. Cause that would just be too normal. And since I am still up at 4:33 in the AM, I have already proven that I am anything but that.

And another reason not to expect perfection?

I recorded it in a basement laundry room. With my phone.

Like I said, CLASSY.

Anyway, I ended up in Brooklyn. Oh, who am I kidding–I knew I would end up there. See, it’s just because my absolute favorite shop in the whole wide world is there. Cat-bird. That’s what the shop is called. And it holds such wonderful little unique treasures and interesting things. It’s where I found this today.

They always have something unicorn in it. Which is part of why I love the place, I guess. Unicorns and I go way back. To when I was four, I think. Four and sick in the hospital with scraggly blond hair never cut evenly a day in my life, if the pictures tell me anything about it. My two best memories of the hospital are when my brothers all marched in to visit and handed me homemade cards, one after the other. Just dropped them into my lap while I was laying on the hospital bed. I still remember it and it still makes me smile. And the other best memory was my parents, bringing me down to the gift shop and telling me I could pick out anything I wanted from the whole store.

Whoa.

So, I found the unicorn stuffed animal, and he moved from the gift room downstairs to my room somewhere upstairs.

I bought a tiny gift for one of my nieces who’s on my christmas gift list this year. I love to buy something from Cat-bird for someone I love. It’s like inviting them into a very good, very warm place, giving them something from there.

And then I found a vintage store. Of course. And the lady who works there–Francesca–had all kinds of fun dressing me up. “It’s just you can fit into everything, so it’s so fun to finally see these clothes on a body!”

And it was so fun.

Until she made me try on the World’s Tiniest Pants Ever.

“You’re a size ___, right?” she asked me.

“Yep.”

Then she sticks something into the dressing room while saying, “Great. Try these on.I can’t wait to see them on you!”

And then they wouldn’t go over my thighs, so I had to let her down gently. She’s still searching for someone to put those pants on. So, really, if you have exceptionally skinny thighs and no butt to speak of, pay her a visit on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn. Make her day.

She also stuffed my size 8 feet into a pair of size 7 boots.

Which made me feel like one of Cinderella’s step-sisters trying to squeeze into that magical glass slipper.

And I was always hoping to be Cinderella in that story, see, so it wasn’t the best feeling for me.

But I did find a pair of pants that fit like a dream, have this amazing tailored look, and the plaid ain’t too shabby, either. Done.

It was a good time tonight. I enjoy my company. I enjoy other people’s company, too. Like a nice guy I met, who bought me some pizza. I was starving, so it really came in handy. We had a good conversation. We realized that were both in South Korea at the same time. How weird is that?

And now look what I’ve gone and done–totally written a whole blog post. I had told myself I was only gonna post the unicorn card, and be done with it. Maybe say a thing or two about Cat-Bird. Ugh. I am a lost cause when it comes to writing less.

I suppose there are worse lost causes out there.

Oh, but one more thing about Cat-Bird. In it, I saw this apron, fitted with a whole row of pencils on the front of it, with large letters across, saying,

WEAPONS TO FIGHT FASCISM

I like it. Use those pencils. Write. Write your thoughts down. Don’t be like everyone else. Don’t form a government with no factions. Let us continue to sharpen each other with our pointed ideas, friends.

Okay, that’s really all now. Promise.

I remember feeling the same way at my first therapy session. Luckily for me, there was this one glaring, um, situation that led me–no, more like paraded me! With banners and balloons and countless advil pm’s later!–into my therapist’s office, so I had an idea of where to start, but still. How do I explain everything? is what I wondered. Luckily, nether of us were afraid of diving into the story, and God bless her for her poker face, because my therapist never looked shocked. Not once.

But do I start by telling you about the dancing trombonist I met on the subway? “You must not have a ton of competition,” I said, rather facetiously, thinking that he probably had none. “Three people,” he told me, without missing a beat. “That I know of.”

Well, I guess it’s good to know your competitors around here.

All three of them.

But what I’d really like to tell you about is probably the creepiest thing I’ve seen for a while now.

This.

What you cannot see is that the marionette has a moving mouth, too. So the puppeteer guy made it look like…I’ll just call him Chuckie, okay?…Like little Chuckie there was singing to whatever was coming out of his boom box. Oh, it was a sight. And so of course I had to take a picture.

You’re welcome.

And then I’d like to mention the guy who bought me pizza. We were both at an open mic and I tried to pay for my own pizza, but he was all, “I insist,” only he said it in a much less formal way than that. So, what’s a girl to do but be like, “Fine, you can buy my pizza, already.”? But then he turned out to be quite a talker and, a lot of what he said, I didn’t even understand. Which was kind of fine, because by the time he asked me to hang out with him sometime after open mic, I still wasn’t quite on the same page and sort of pretended not to hear him. Which worked, cause he didn’t ask again.

And open mics.

Guys, they’re one part amazing, one part hilarious, and one hundred parts WHAT IS GOING ON?!

That’s right, there are one hundred and three parts to an open mic in New York City. Oops, I mean one hundred and two. Math was not a requirement in my degree. Um, good thing.

But at one point, somebody was on stage, re-enacting a…oh goodness, I can’t write it here. Just trust me on this one–it was surprising and crude. But like I said, the night was filled with variety. I even saw a little drug deal go down. But that wasn’t somebody’s act; at least, it wasn’t on the stage, anyway.

Then it was my turn to sing.

“Are you weird enough?” another musician asked me right before I took the stage.

“I’m not sure…” I said, honestly.

“Cause here, you gotta be weird. Are your songs too happy?” he continued.

And this–this I knew! “Oh, no,” I said with confidence. “They’re not very happy at all!”

And with that, he gave me a kind of “that’s my girl” look.

I did two songs–one on the uke, one on the piano. And it felt good to do. People listened. People were kind. Afterward, people asked me my name, were all excited that the Paper Janes are playing the Trash Bar on the 19th next month. Oh, and they kept asking for a card.

A business card and an umbrella. These are the things that I never have and really should.

As I was leaving, there was a small group of us gathered outside the Sidewalk Cafe, just talking. Unbelievably, I ran into some good musician folk from Delaware who I know–and so a few of them were part of the rag-tag little hipster group with various instruments and old sweaters draped over our bodies, respectively.  It was such a good vibe. I felt like I was exactly where I wanted to be in the world. And that’s a rich feeling, friends.

It filled my heart so much that, even though the A train stopped running express and went a slow crawl on up to the northernmost part of Manhattan, I didn’t mind it so much.

Why rush when you’re right where you’re supposed to be, right?

Plus, there was a guy and a girl on the subway having a fabulous argument about how one of them was a sociopath and the other was mentally ill with something or other and, well, let’s just say I put down my reading, because there was a story happening right in front of me.

Honestly, New York City in general may just put reality television out of business one of these days.

A girl who I recognized because I’ve seen her at auditions. And she’s lovely.

“Oh my gosh, yes! It’s so good to see you–do you go to this church?” I asked, completely surprised to see a familiar face at this church in the city that I was trying out for the very first time this morning.

“Sometimes I do,” she said.

And that basically made my morning. Afterwards, we talked and had quite a nice conversation. I think I’ve made a new friend, guys.

And then, tonight, I got to spend time with some friends while waiting to sing at a Cabaret. A very musical theater cabaret. At which my friend and I covered an Eminem/Dr. Dre song. Let’s just say it was something different. Oh gosh, the accompanist was quite a good sport, though; I am pretty sure she’d never accompanied a song quite like that before. But, really, a song is a song is a song. I mean, keep time and play the right chords and everything should be okay.

Speaking of everything being okay, life is such a balance.  We must understand the reality of how sometimes things are just not gonna be okay, and yet continue to believe that they will be.

I had a late dinner tonight with friends–all of us are performers–and we discussed how you have to be a little bit naive and ridiculous in the way you believe in yourself in this business. Yes, a thousand people can do what you do–and yet, when you walk into a room and sing, your job is to convince them that you bring something absolutely unique to the table and their search was over as soon as you opened your mouth.

Sounds crazy.

It is a little crazy.

Sounds vain.

It’s not.

It’s the truth; do what you do, committed to the fact that you are unique.

We all know that this is a big world, full of lots of talented people. And yet, believing that we do have something special to offer keeps us running alongside them; keeps us continuing to hone our craft and do what we do with the belief that it means something and contributes to our to this world’s sense of purpose or beauty or meaning or hey, just plain gets those bills paid.

Cause I sure don’t mind that, either.

Anyway, yes, live in reality–but believe in yourself.

Which is quite a tightrope to walk sometimes.