You hear a lot about self-esteem, and apparently you’re supposed to have it. A lot if possible. I have always found this tricky.

Of course, I’m old enough that when I was little, no one ever talked about self-esteem. On the other hand, not being too big for your britches, not acting conceited, those messages were heard loud and clear. (I think in elementary school, at least among us girls, “being conceited” was the worst thing of which you could be accused.)  At home I got the distinct impression I needn’t think too highly of myself, and tamp down whatever exhilaration any little girl grade success might bring on. When I was put in a gifted program I knew not to discuss it much at home so my brother’s feelings wouldn’t get hurt. I could have easily risen above all this accept for the fact that the accomplishment that meant most to me was being loved, being liked – or at the very least not not-liked. And so began my diligent immersion into self-effacement.

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