I Celebrate Me.

There was once a time when I could not receive a compliment. A simple "well done," a casual "I love your shoes"—it didn’t matter how small or insignificant the praise was, I would feel myself shrink. It was like something inside me recoiled at the attention, at the recognition. My stomach would tighten, nausea creeping up my throat, and before I could even process it, I’d be deflecting like a Power Ranger on steroids. Awkward as fuck. Sarcasm became my shield, a well-placed joke my sword, slicing through any sentiment that might force me to acknowledge myself.

Because, deep down, I loathed myself.

I had convinced myself that I was not worthy of being seen, of being celebrated, of being loved. I wore a carefully constructed mask, one that told the world I had my shit together, that I was tough, untouchable, impenetrable. Because being vulnerable?

That was dangerous. That was a risk I had vowed never to take again. And so, I built walls, high and thick, and lived inside them. A fortress of my own making, where self-loathing whispered through the halls and self-judgment held the keys.

The stories we tell ourselves—about who we are, what we deserve, what we are capable of—become the bars of our own cages. And I had spent years reinforcing mine, believing them to be truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

But here’s the thing: when you don’t allow yourself to receive, you are cutting yourself off from the very thing that fuels growth.

Change begins with learning to receive. Not just from others, but from yourself.

To receive the fullness of who you are, to love all of it—the raw, the real, the messy—is where transformation happens.

And I know how fucking hard that is. I know what it’s like to hit those bumps in the road, to tear yourself apart piece by piece. Self-judgment is a sneaky little bastard, ingrained so deeply it feels like second nature. There were times I wondered if I’d ever be able to change the narrative, to rewrite the story I had spent so long reciting.

But I did. And do you know where it starts?

It starts with forgiving yourself.

It starts with celebrating yourself.

It starts with the tiniest moments—the ones we overlook, dismiss, and deem unworthy of acknowledgment.

Celebrating getting out of bed on the hard days.

Celebrating checking something off the to-do list.

Celebrating the fact that you showed up, even when it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on your shoulders.

When my coach, Deb Lim, asked me to write down every single thing I had achieved, finished, or overcome in 2023, I initially scoffed at the idea. What had I really done? What was there to celebrate?

And then I started writing. And I couldn’t stop.

Line after line, moment after moment. I read back over my own words, and something in me shifted. Because here I was, telling myself I hadn’t done enough, that I hadn’t been enough, and yet—holy shit—look at everything I had carried, built, completed, survived.

We forget to celebrate ourselves.

We brush off compliments because “it’s just what we do.” We move on too quickly, too focused on the next mountain, the next goal, the next proving ground. But let me tell you this—you are not just the things you have yet to accomplish. You are the victories, the small and the mighty, the quiet wins and the loud ones.

I have battled with my body, with the limitations that came after my knee injury. Some days I limp. Some days I walk just fine. But beneath it all, I have struggled with the frustration of not being able to do what I once could. I have grieved for the parts of myself that had to be left behind—the sport I loved, the adrenaline rush of riding in the back of the fire truck, the freedom of running through the forest.

And for a long time, I didn’t want anyone to know how broken I felt inside.

So, I overcompensated. Took on more, pushed harder, filled my plate to overflowing just to prove—to myself, to others—that I still mattered. Because we all want to matter. We all want to belong.

But here’s what I know now.

I am still worthy. Even with my body’s limitations. Even when I have to adapt, adjust, and pivot. I am still here, still showing up, still making an impact. And I celebrate that.

I celebrate receiving the Honorary Life Medal from the Thames Valley Goldfields Sub Association.

I celebrate being recognized by my team. I celebrate the culture we have built, the mentorship I now get to offer, the knowledge I get to pass on.

I celebrate that I no longer hide from recognition, but stand in it.

Because leadership isn’t about standing alone at the top—it’s about lifting others as you rise. It’s about seeing the potential in those around you, calling it forward, and reminding them that they, too, deserve to be seen.

We nurture those who choose to walk this path with us. We push them forward, we hold space, we celebrate their wins, their growth, their strength. Because when one of us rises, we all do.

And so, I thank those who see me. I thank those who believe in me. But most of all, I thank myself.

Because I finally see me, too.