I like me, too

It's not very often that I have the TV on during the day while I work. Normally, I work along to the click clack of the keyboard or the sweeter click clack of one of the dogs trotting across the hardwood floors, drawn to the irresistible sound of leaves falling outside the window or a car door slamming two blocks away. Other than that, it's usually music thumping lightly in the background. Loud enough to provide a rhythm to keep me motivated, but quiet enough that I don't feel called to dance around the room like Elaine.

The other day, however, I decided to turn on the TV. I was scrolling through whatever channel it was (yes, I call them channels, yes you can mock me along with David and my kids) looking for something to fill the silence when John Candy's face popped up. When I see John Candy, I immediately think of my dad and transport back to the 1980s.

When Legends Don't Believe in Themselves

Wow. It's one of those documentaries that leaves you asking deep questions about yourself. I won't give much away because I highly suggest you check it out (Amazon Prime, by the way, I checked and you’re welcome), but there's something that stopped me cold.

Here was John Candy—beloved, talented, someone whose work still makes us laugh and cry 30+ years after his death. A regular kid from some small town in Canada who "made it." Someone that plain jane folks like me still remember so fondly. And yet:

"The thing that was so big and was such a big secret was that he didn't believe in himself." - Christopher Candy

Can you imagine? A legend like John Candy not believing in himself. What does that say, not about us as individuals, but about us as a society?

John himself said it best: "You're always treated like a second-class citizen in a way, or you get that feeling. I think it's just, you're so vulnerable and you're so sensitive to it...I look at things through thin eyes really…I never really consider anybody, what they look like, their physical self. It's really who's in the person is really what counts."

I understand this so deeply. And I don't think it's something you can really get unless you've spent the majority of your life being judged harshly because of your physical self. Whether it be weight, disability, societal definitions of attractiveness, whatever. Not to say that you can't be the type of person who sees beyond the physical without having suffered this judgment, but to truly understand the significance of seeing and being seen beyond surface level, you've had to experience that side of it.

The Big Picture vs. The Details

Two more quotes from the documentary struck me:

"It made him feel good to give that much to everybody." - Conan O'Brien

"When I think of John…it's not in terms of details. I think of John in terms of the big picture." - Catherine O'Hara

Big picture.

As a detail person, I never really thought about my own existence in those terms. I've always, like most people I assume, just focused on the details. The mistakes. The failures. The bad decisions. The moments I said the wrong thing or hurt someone I loved or made a fool of myself in front of people whose opinions I cared too much about. The times I've broken hearts, betrayed people, probably even broken some. Those details are real, and they're ugly—because quite honestly, the details of most people's lives are ugly when you zoom in close enough.

But details and big picture are different things. Intent and impact are different things. And all of these matter, but they don't all matter in the same way or at the same time.

When I step back and look at the big picture? By golly, I like me.

Now, before you think I've suddenly developed an ego the size of Texas, let me be clear. If you've been around here long enough, you might assume I have basement-level self-esteem. You would be 100% correct—when I'm measuring my worth against societal expectations and comparing myself to literally every single person around me.

But when it's just me, myself, and I? When I zoom out far enough to see the whole picture instead of obsessing over the huge smudges and glaring imperfections? The truth is, I like me. Which is a really good thing because I'm stuck with me.

Why I Like Me (And Why You Should Like You Too)

Here's what I see when I look at my big picture, in zero particular order:

I'm a hoper and a wisher and a dreamer and a thinker. Somehow, some way, even in the darkest corners of the ugliest moments, there's a piece of me that always seems to find the good. To see the hope. To dream of better. I've been through seasons where everything felt heavy and impossible, where I couldn't see past the next hour, let alone the next day. And still, somewhere in there, a tiny voice nags "but what if..." That voice has gotten me through more than I can count. It's not toxic positivity or denial—it's a stubborn belief that things can be different, better, lighter. And that belief? It's kept me alive.

I always try to find the good in others. Even when someone has hurt me, even when they've made choices I don't understand or agree with, I look for the reason behind it. The wound that made them act that way. The fear that drove the decision. I don't always succeed, and I'm not saying people get a free pass for bad behavior, but I refuse to flatten anyone into a villain. We're all so much more complicated than our worst moments. When I meet someone new, I'm looking for what makes them light up, what they care about, what makes them them. Not what's wrong with them, but what's right.

I get truly excited witnessing others' success and happiness, especially the underdogs. There's something about watching someone who's been counted out finally get their moment that makes my whole chest feel warm. When the kid who struggled finally gets it. When the friend who's been working toward something for years finally breaks through. When someone who's been told they're not enough proves everyone wrong. I'm the person ugly crying happy tears at your wins, celebrating your promotions, cheering from the sidelines of your life. Your success doesn't diminish mine. There's enough good to go around.

I invite laughter into every situation. Not because I'm trying to avoid hard things or make light of pain, but because I genuinely believe that humor is how we survive. Life is so absurdly hard and so absurdly beautiful, often in the same moment, and laughter is the bridge between those two truths. I'll find the ridiculous in the mundane. I'll make the inappropriate joke at the (frequently) inappropriate time because sometimes that's exactly what we need to remember we're human. Laughter doesn't erase the hard stuff—it just makes it a little more bearable.

I have a stubborn refusal to let life harden me. Lord knows life has tried. There have been betrayals and disappointments and losses that could have turned me bitter and closed off. And some days, I feel that hardness creeping in, that temptation to just stop caring so much, stop trying so hard, stop being so vulnerable. But I keep choosing softness. I keep choosing to stay open. Because the alternative—becoming cynical and guarded and small and angry and hateful—feels like letting the hard things win. And I'm too stubborn for that.

I forgive as I hope to be forgiven. I've messed up. A lot. I've said and done things I wish I could take back. I've made choices that hurt people I love. I've been selfish and short-sighted and sometimes just plain wrong. And I've needed forgiveness—desperately, repeatedly, sometimes daily. So, when someone else messes up, when they hurt me or disappoint me or fall short, I try to extend the same grace I've needed. Not because they necessarily deserve it, but because we're all just stumbling through this life doing the best we can with what we know at the time.

I'm not afraid to admit when I'm wrong. Pride is exhausting, and I'm too tired to carry it around. When I realize I've made a mistake or misunderstood something or hurt someone, I say so. "I was wrong" might be hard to say, and sadly, it won’t fix many things, but it's easier than living with the weight of pretending I'm always right. Plus, admitting you're wrong is weirdly freeing. It means you can learn something. It means you can do better next time.

I'm also not afraid to speak of weaknesses and vulnerabilities. I write about my struggles. I talk about the hard stuff. Not for sympathy or attention, but because I think we all need to know we're not alone in this. When I share the ugly, imperfect parts of my life, I'm not looking for pity—I'm looking for connection. I'm saying "me too" before anyone even has to ask. Vulnerability isn't weakness. It's actually the bravest thing we can do.

I love fiercely. When I'm in, I'm all in. I will show up for you. I will remember the small things you mention in passing. I will check in when you're going through it. I will celebrate your wins and sit with you in your losses. My love isn't perfect or always expressed the right way, but it's real and it's big and it's unwavering. If you're in my circle, you're in my heart, and that's not a temporary thing.

I don't fit any particular mold, in the best way. I'm too much of some things and not enough of others, depending on who's doing the measuring. I'm a walking contradiction—an introvert who loves people, a detail person who dreams big, someone who overthinks everything but also leaps without looking. I don't fit neatly into any category, and I've stopped (rather, am learning how to stop) trying to. Because trying to fit into someone else's mold means shaving off the parts of yourself that make you interesting. And I'd rather be interesting than acceptable.

How We See Others (And How They See Us)

Here's the thing, though. This big picture view? It doesn't just apply to how we see ourselves. It applies to how we see everyone.

We live in a society that's obsessed with details, especially the ugly ones. We zoom in on people's mistakes, their bad days, their worst moments, and we let those details define them entirely. Someone messes up once, and suddenly that's who they are. Forever. No room for growth, no space for context, no acknowledgment of the thousand other moments that make up a life.

But what if we looked at others the way Catherine O'Hara looked at John Candy? What if we stepped back far enough to see the whole picture instead of fixating on the smudges?

This doesn't mean ignoring harm or excusing bad behavior. Details matter—of course they do. If someone repeatedly hurts people, if their actions cause real damage, if they show zero sign of remorse or repentance, those details are important information. But even then, they're not the whole story. People are more than their worst choices. They're more than their mistakes, their struggles, their seasons of getting it wrong.

When we view others through the big picture lens, we create space for complexity. For redemption. For the possibility that someone can grow and change and become better than they were. We allow people to be human—contradictory and imperfect, but still fundamentally worthy of dignity and grace.

And here's what's beautiful: when we extend this grace to others, it becomes easier to extend it to ourselves. When we stop flattening people into their worst moments, we stop flattening ourselves too. We start to believe that we're more than our details. That we're allowed to like ourselves even when we're not perfect.

The Challenge: Do You Like You?

So, here's what I want you to do. Not someday. Not when you have time. Now.

I want you to look at yourself closely enough to really decide if you like who you are. Not who you wish you were. Not who you think you should be. Not the version of yourself you present on social media or at work or to your in-laws. The actual you. The big picture you.

Get out a piece of paper or open a note on your phone. Make a list of why you like yourself. Not what you're good at or what you've accomplished, but who you are at your core. What makes you you in the best way? What would the people who love you most say about your big picture?

This is going to feel uncomfortable. Maybe even impossible at first. We're so conditioned to focus on what's wrong with us, on what we need to fix or improve or change. We're trained to measure ourselves against impossible standards and find ourselves lacking. Society has spent your whole life telling you that you're not enough—not thin enough, not successful enough, not smart enough, not whatever enough.

But I'm telling you to ignore all that noise for just a moment and ask yourself: stripped of all those external measures, do you like who you are?

And if the answer is no—if you can't find anything on that list, if the big picture view still looks ugly to you—then that's information too. That's a starting point. Because the question becomes: what would need to change for you to like yourself? And more importantly: are those changes about becoming who you truly want to be, or about becoming who someone else thinks you should be?

The truth is, all of us spend all of this short, precious time we have here measuring our worth based on societal expectations and comparing ourselves to those around us. Even legends like John Candy. Even people who seem to have it all figured out. Even the people you're comparing yourself to are comparing themselves to someone else.

But what if we just... stopped?

What if we decided that our big picture matters more than our details? That who we are at our core trumps every mistake we've ever made? That we're allowed to like ourselves because we're trying, we're growing, we're doing the best we can with what we've got?

You are more than your worst moment. You are more than your biggest failure. You are more than the numbers on the scale or the balance in your bank account or the job title on your business card. You are a whole, complex, contradictory, beautiful mess of a human being, and you deserve to be seen—by yourself and by others—as more than just the details.

So make your list. Look at your big picture. And then, maybe for the first time, let yourself say it out loud:

I like me.

Because if a legend like John Candy struggled to believe it about himself, and if I—with all my flaws and failures and fumbling through life—can say it, then you can too.

You're stuck with you, after all. You might as well like yourself.

I highly recommend watching "I Like Me: The John Candy Story" on Amazon Prime. Not just because it's a beautiful tribute to a talented man, but because it might just change how you see yourself.

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About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through books, blog posts, printables, and coaching, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.

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Cover Photo by Marwan Abdalah on Unsplash