I’m really good at my job, mostly because I love it. It’s perfect for me; and vice versa. I play pool games (swimming, not table) at various resorts in Key West. Every late morning I ‘suit up’ in a bikini and tank top with the authoritative “Instructor” across the back and pedal my bike from one end of the island to the other stopping to play pool golf, Name that Tune, Black Jack on a floating table made of foam; handing out free drink tickets to the winners.

Only in Key West.

And I rock it. How could you not? It’s easy, fun, I’m independent and my boss and I love each other. It helps that I seem to be a natural promoter via my enthusiasm for anything fun. I get my exercise biking sometimes a total of twenty miles in an afternoon, meet cool people—people from home, fellow funsters, musicians setting up to play after I’m done—and satisfy my need for variety because no day and no pool are ever the same.

The bartenders support me and my cause because happy guests are good guests and good tippers. Except for this one bartender this one day who decided to spread lies and ruin my life. I wish I didn’t let people’s inaccurate depictions of me hurt so much, but I’ve never been able to get away with it. I try; tell myself all the upbeat, fortune cookie sized things, like “other people’s opinions of me are none of my business” and “you know your worth” and “hurt people hurt people” but inevitably doubt creeps back in and washes over me, wave after wave. I try to not let it capsize my boat of self-certainty, which now feels more like a Tom Sawyer raft than a boat.

In a sea of positivity, why do I let this little drop of negative become so strong? Why do I weight it so much more heavily? Why do I let one voice become louder than the rest of the choir?

I don’t know. I mean, I do and I don’t. I’ve struggled with it practically my whole life, this, as Mary Karr puts it, “constantly checking to see where I am in line” in relation to others. As much as I tout the stand strong and tall imagery when things are going well—or when things aren’t for someone else — I can crumble when someone starts throwing mud. Because deep down I fear they are right. Deep runs the doubt that maybe I’m not good enough. Not by a long shot.

So I hide. I dodge my boss’s texts asking me to call her about the comments this guy has made about me. Kind of like I hid my underpants as a kid when I’d wet them. Then I go into victim mode, almost paralyzed by a situation that I’ve given way too much weight to.

I apply for other jobs. Or I threaten (whom? myself?) to leave the island entirely; never to be heard from again. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. I know it’s ridiculous but I can’t stop the mental calisthenics. I’m too well practiced. It’s second nature at this point. Maybe first nature, even.

Then, for no other reason than I’m tired of it, I reach out. I take baby steps to stand up for myself and set the record straight in the most compassionate way I know how. That’s when it shifts. That’s when I find out how good it feels to bring things out into the open where they can be seen and my true reputation established.