My name is Rachel.

For me, it’s an ongoing effort to show up as the real me. Like, the REAL real me. And, not only is the effort constant, it’s fucking hard. I hear so much chatter inside my brain about how I look, how I talk, how I drive, how I EAT – it is Never. Ending.

So, last year at the beginning of school my six-year-old daughter, Eleanore, came to me and told me she needed a family picture to take to school and hang in her classroom.

Shit. I’m a single working mom – two daughters I have all the time, all the time. Family picture? I still have laundry from weeks ago sitting in baskets…

So, I problem-solved. I whipped out my phone and started scrolling our selfies. And I stopped here.

I love this one. This makes me happy. This is us.

We took this last summer at a beach party in Mound, MN. There was a beer tent and food trucks and a live cover band and a playground. We were celebrating. Life. For a second, I was excited about offering this picture – until I printed it out and looked at it.

I’m holding a beer – is it OK to send this as our family photo? Is it inappropriate? Is the teacher gonna judge? What about the other parents who see it? Will the kids say something? You can see the sweat pimples and stubble in my armpit. Oh, gross. No one wants to see that. But we look so HAPPY. We were really happy…

Then my palms started to sweat and this was the moment of truth –

You have to decide whether or not you’re gonna give your daughter this picture to take to school. And whatever you decide, you better know why you decided it and you better own it.

So I gave it to Eleanore and said “Here. Take this one. I love this one.” She giggled and said she couldn’t possibly take it to school because “You’re holding a beer, Mom. And I can see your PIT hair!” She laughed. Loud. And then my palms started to sweat again, add in a racing heart and that weird tunnel vision that happens when you’re thinking manically inside yourself trying to decide what’s the “right” thing to do –

Stand your ground, girl, stand your ground.

“So what?” I said. “You think other parents don’t drink beer? And, who cares about my pit hair? We were happy in that picture, weren’t we?”

My eyes got a little wet when I walked into Eleanore’s classroom for parent-teacher conferences that November and saw us three amigos stuck to the wall with the rest of the first grade MAC families. Grinning from ear-to-ear. I was the only parent holding a beer.

We were a tiny pulsating orb of orange aura and I felt so fucking proud.

One day my girls are gonna know the mind drama and physical discomforts that come with simply being Who. You. Are. You’ve gotta overcome the shame, the embarrassment, the razor – hah! You must intentionally work against it. It is a tangible fucking effort. Palpable. And I will be there to coach them through it all.

Deep breath.

My name is Rachel, and I do what I want.