I am not a fucking leader.

So, lemme set the scene: Three 30 & 40-something women chillin’ in an Airbnb or a Vrbo or whatever the fuck acronym it is. It’s a Friday night and we all met up for a quickie girls’ weekend without kids or spouses or any other such clingy nonsense.  Our ability to let down is impressive – it happens immediately once we get the fucking door-lock code situation figured out. Drop the bags, take a couple hits, and head out to explore the cute little river town that is Galena, IL. We bar-hopped, checked out the sex shop and the dispensary, then went back to the house for a dinner of snacks: Chipped beef dip on bagel pieces (then later on cucumber because that made us feel better about ourselves), leftover tacos from a goodbye party at work, and chocolate cake – also left over from said party. While we were sitting around enjoying our gourmet dinner paired with water and Busch Light, we were talking about I don’t even remember what. But I do remember these words coming out of my mouth –

I am not a fucking leader, and I have no desire to be one. I just wanna do what I want, and I’m happy to help people along the way.

Hah! OK, Rachel.

Where did this thought come from, you wonder? It formulated in my head the weekend before Halloween when my daughters and I went grocery shopping.

Should I wear my Michael Meyers mask into the store?

Yes, Mommy – do it! Do it!

So I did. As soon as we walked through that second set of double sliding doors, Eleanore, my seven-year-old, exclaimed –

You’re so BRAVE, Mommy!

Then my heart fluttered, and my eyes teared up behind that mask, and I zipped my abs up tight in an effort to support my stomach that was suddenly housing a pit inside it. These kids have a way of fucking me up with their words. So bad, so bad. I sucked in a deep, full breath and took an extra-long time looking at the bagged salad options which I chose to forego in the end.

We made our way through the store as gracefully as possible with that thing on my head. A couple and their preteen who were enjoying their shopping together saw me and laughed. A middle-aged white woman with bangs and glasses and wrinkles looked at me in disgust. The lady at the deli counter had zero reaction when I went up there and asked for a pound of roast beef. Zero. Fucking. Reaction. As if it’s every day that people come up to her counter wearing what’s arguably the most iconic representation of horror on the planet.

But I digress. I walked out of Cub that day feeling super proud that I took the opportunity to demonstrate to my daughters how I march to the beat of my own drum, and I think I’m fucking funny and fun. I also noticed that other than my kids’ reaction (I’m a softy mom, I know), no one else’s really affected me – neither the positive, the negative, nor the apathetic – though I’m still stumped on the apathetic.

The people who laughed didn’t pump me up, and the people who judged didn’t offend me. I just didn’t give a shit any which way. And in that moment, I realized not only could I never be a leader, I don’t want to be one – I don’t wanna try to convince people how fantastic I am or that I have great ideas, and I certainly don’t want to direct people. I just want to help them, but only if they want my help.