“There’s no accounting for taste,” I volley, falling back on self-deprecation because there’s this little mean, vain part inside me that still feels unworthy of this kind of attention. You’re too big. You talk too much. Your optimism is obnoxious. They’re hard insecurities to shake, especially when they were planted so young, reinforced by the words I grew up hearing. But I’ve come to embrace these parts of myself. Most days, I believe they are some of my best qualities. Other days, I hear my dad’s voice in my head. And I hate it.
