Cast Your Vote How We Become Ourselves One Conscious Choice at a Time

The idea came to me because of sunflower seeds.

Which feels appropriate, honestly, because apparently some of my deepest revelations now arrive through factory bathrooms, childhood crimes, and snack food. 😂

I had just finished one shift at the factory and was cleaning up before taking a few minutes to rest and starting another.

Work had been slower earlier in the year. We went from regularly working forty-eight hours or more to around thirty-eight, and although the difference didn’t completely wreck me financially, it was enough to make me lean on a few credit cards more than I would have liked.

So when overtime became available again, I was grateful.

Really grateful.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the extra money.

Pay things down.

Not because I suddenly became some saint of financial responsibility who no longer experiences temptation when standing near craft supplies.

Absolutely not.

There will still be clay.

There will probably be fabric.

I have accepted this about myself. 😂

But something has changed.

Extra money no longer immediately translates in my mind to:

What can I buy?

Now I can look at it and think:

What can I free myself from?

That afternoon, I was in the bathroom getting ready for my little break when I saw my friend Faye preparing to leave for the day.

Faye was the first person to really befriend me when I started at WestRock five years ago, so there is history between us. The kind of friendship where a completely ordinary conversation can wander somewhere neither of you expected.

She had gotten her purse out of her locker and was eating pistachios.

She offered me some.

I happily accepted because apparently I will postpone enlightenment for a good nut. 😂

I told her I loved pistachios, but sunflower seeds were actually my favorite.

Every few weeks, Hunter buys me one of those giant one-pound bags because he knows I love them.

Faye laughed and said her husband loved sunflower seeds too.

Then she asked me something only another sunflower seed household would understand.

“Do you eat them one at a time?”

Please.

Amateur hour.

I informed her that I am a professional seed eater.

A real sunflower seed enthusiast does not delicately crack one seed, remove it, eat it, repeat.

No.

You put a mouthful in your cheek and systematically shell them one by one like some kind of highly specialized woodland creature, spitting the empty shells out while maintaining the remaining inventory.

It is a skill.

I have trained for years.

Faye started laughing.

And suddenly I remembered exactly where my sunflower-seed career began.

I was little.

Probably seven or eight.

My older sister Monica and I would eat sunflower seeds together. At that age, I could only manage them one at a time.

Monica, being older and apparently possessing superior seed technology, would patiently shell hers and create a little pile.

She would work on it for a while until she had accumulated enough shelled sunflower seeds to eat several at once.

And Little Jasmine would sit nearby watching.

Eating hers.

One.

At.

A.

Time.

Until eventually…

temptation.

I would watch that beautiful little pile growing.

And growing.

And growing.

Then, at precisely the right moment, I would let out what I remember as some sort of evil laugh, grab as many of Monica’s freshly shelled sunflower seeds as my tiny criminal hands could hold—

and RUN.

😂

I can still imagine myself fleeing the scene, laughing, while my sister chased me.

Sometimes I surrendered the seeds.

Sometimes I shared them.

Sometimes the disagreement became slightly more… physical.

Sibling diplomacy was still under development.

And sometimes Monica deployed the most terrifying weapon available to an older sister:

“I’m telling Momma!”

No.

NO.

Anything but that.

“DON’T TELL MOM! HERE! TAKE YOUR SEEDS!”

I could practically hear the footsteps heading toward the next room.

Then came the silence.

And then—

“EEE—LAAAY—NUHHH!”

Every syllable of my middle name somehow more terrifying than the one before it.

Jasmine Elena was in trouble.

Again.

😂

I remember trembling when Mom called my name like that.

Sometimes I knew exactly what I had done.

Other times I had been mischievous enough that there were several active investigations and I wasn’t entirely sure which crime had finally caught up with me.

Who told?

What did she find?

Did somebody discover the thing I accidentally broke and hid?

It was around that age that I had a realization.

I don’t remember the exact day.

I don’t remember what happened immediately before it.

But I remember understanding, in the simple logic of a child:

I don’t have to keep feeling like this.

I could just…

be good.

I could stop doing things that got me in trouble.

I could stop being mean.

I could stop breaking things and hiding them.

I could stop stressing Momma out.

I could stop creating reasons for my middle name to be summoned from three rooms away like a biblical prophecy of doom.

I remember telling myself:

Okay. We are going to be good today.

And because I had absolutely no idea what well-regulated childhood behavior was supposed to look like, I came up with the safest plan available.

I sat on the couch.

And played with my fingers.

😂

That was it.

Apparently Little Jasmine’s first attempt at character development was:

DO NOT MOVE.

Adventure was dangerous.

Adventure often turned into mischief.

Mischief frequently turned into:

EEE—LAAAY—NUHHH!

So we were going to sit right here and play with our fingers until further notice.

I told Faye this story while we stood there eating pistachios.

She laughed and said:

“You’ve been working on yourself for a long time.”

And I laughed too.

But the sentence stayed with me.

Because…

she was right.

In my own little way, I had been.

That seven-year-old girl had discovered something enormous.

I could participate in the person I became.

At first, of course, the motivation was fear.

Little Jasmine wasn’t making sophisticated decisions based on carefully defined personal values.

She was trying not to get yelled at.

She wanted to feel safe.

She wanted to stop hearing disappointment in her mother’s voice.

She wanted to stop feeling that horrible jolt inside her body when her name was called.

So she created an identity:

The good girl.

And she started casting votes for her.

One tiny choice at a time.

Don’t take Monica’s seeds.

Don’t hide the thing you broke.

Don’t start trouble.

Sit still.

Be nice.

Behave.

Some of those lessons helped me.

Some followed me much farther than they needed to.

Because eventually “being good” became tangled up with being liked.

Being easy.

Being helpful.

Being useful.

Not disappointing people.

Not upsetting anyone.

Being the person nobody had a reason to reject.

The little girl who once thought:

If I’m good, maybe Mom won’t yell

can eventually become the woman who thinks:

If I’m good enough, maybe nobody will leave.

That is why healing has required more than simply continuing to “make good choices.”

I’ve had to examine why I’m making them.

Two people can perform the exact same action from completely different places.

I can help somebody because helping them genuinely aligns with my values.

Or I can help them because I am terrified they will stop loving me if I say no.

Same action.

Different vote.

I can apologize because I recognize that I hurt someone and want to repair it.

Or I can apologize because another person being unhappy with me makes me so uncomfortable that I immediately take responsibility for everything.

Same words.

Different vote.

I can work hard because I take pride in what I do.

Or I can work myself into the ground because achievement is the only way I know how to feel worthy.

Same effort.

Different vote.

That may be one of the biggest differences between survival and character.

When I was little, fear often cast the ballot.

As I grew older, approval sometimes cast it.

Wounds cast some.

Ego cast plenty.

Old programming slipped quite a few into the box when I wasn’t paying attention.

Healing hasn’t meant that those old voices never speak again.

It has meant I’ve finally learned to ask:

Who is holding the ballot?

Because every conscious choice is a vote cast for the person I am becoming.

Not every thought.

That distinction matters.

A random thought appearing in my head is not a vote.

Fear whispering something ridiculous is not a vote.

An old insecurity showing up is not a vote.

A jealous thought.

An intrusive thought.

An angry thought.

A wounded thought.

Those are information.

Old programming.

Weather passing through the mind.

The vote happens when awareness enters the room.

I notice the thought.

Then I decide what happens next.

Someone disappoints me.

Do I react immediately?

Or pause long enough to understand what I’m actually feeling?

Vote.

Someone pulls away.

Do I chase?

Or let their actions give me information?

Vote.

Someone I love is struggling.

Do I jump into rescue mode?

Or hand them their own power and say, I believe in you?

Vote.

I enter a room where someone once made me uncomfortable.

Do I carry yesterday into today?

Or let the present moment introduce itself?

Vote.

Extra money lands in my account.

Do I immediately spend every dollar because having money feels exciting?

Or enjoy a little bit and use the rest to create more freedom for myself?

Vote.

I make a mistake.

Do I bully myself?

Or take accountability without turning myself into an enemy?

Vote.

The beautiful thing is that character rarely develops in dramatic moments where music swells in the background and someone announces:

THIS DECISION WILL DEFINE YOU.

Most ballots are incredibly boring.

Nobody sees them.

Nobody applauds.

You choose not to gossip.

You tell the truth.

You follow through.

You apologize.

You rest when your body needs rest.

You don’t send the text.

You make the payment.

You keep the promise you made to yourself.

You pause before reacting.

You choose not to say the cruel thing even though you thought of an absolutely devastating comeback.

Which sometimes deserves its own medal, frankly. 😂

Tiny votes.

Tiny votes.

Tiny votes.

And eventually they become a pattern.

The pattern becomes evidence.

And the evidence becomes character.

Maybe we spend too much time asking:

Who am I?

as though identity is some hidden object we must eventually discover underneath enough layers.

Sometimes the better question is:

Who am I repeatedly choosing to become?

Because the answer is happening in real time.

And this doesn’t require perfection.

Thank God.

Because sometimes I am going to cast a vote for old Jasmine.

Sometimes fear will get one.

Sometimes ego will sneak into the polling station wearing sunglasses and a fake mustache.

😂

Sometimes I will react.

Sometimes I will spend money I probably should have saved.

Sometimes I will care too much about somebody’s opinion.

Sometimes I will rescue when I should have stepped back.

Sometimes I will forget everything I have learned for twenty-three minutes and then suddenly realize:

Oh. Right. Consciousness.

None of that erases the election.

One ballot does not determine the whole thing.

That may be one of the most compassionate things I’ve learned about growth.

You can make a bad choice Tuesday.

Awareness hands you another ballot Wednesday.

You can lose your temper.

Repair it.

Another ballot.

You can fall into an old pattern.

Recognize it.

Another ballot.

You can abandon yourself.

Notice.

Come back.

Another ballot.

Character isn’t proven by never getting it wrong.

It is built by what you repeatedly choose once you become aware that you have a choice.

And when I look back now at that mischievous little girl stealing her sister’s sunflower seeds, I don’t see a bad child who finally decided to become good.

I see a little girl beginning to discover agency.

She didn’t understand all the reasons behind her behavior.

She didn’t know fear had become part of her motivation.

She didn’t know how much of “good girl” she would eventually have to untangle.

She only understood:

I can choose differently.

That was the seed.

And apparently, I’ve been chewing on it ever since.

One at a time at first.

Then eventually by the mouthful.

Professional level.

😂

Little Jasmine first learned to change her behavior because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t.

Adult Jasmine gets to choose differently for another reason.

Not because someone might yell my middle name.

Not because I need to earn approval.

Not because I am trying to be the best woman in the room.

Not because I need anyone to certify that I am good.

I choose because I know the kind of woman I want to be.

Kind, but boundaried.

Generous, but not self-abandoning.

Responsible, without becoming rigid.

Playful.

Curious.

Honest.

Present.

Someone who can receive abundance without immediately consuming it.

Someone who celebrates another woman’s light instead of wondering whether it dims her own.

Someone who loves without rescuing.

Someone who can recognize fear without handing it the keys.

Someone Little Jasmine could have trusted.

And I don’t have to become all of her today.

I just have to cast the next vote.

Maybe becoming yourself is not one enormous awakening.

Maybe it is a lifetime of tiny elections.

A thousand ordinary moments when consciousness places the ballot back into your hand and quietly asks:

Who do you want to be this time?

Sometimes you’ll vote for the old version.

Sometimes you’ll vote for fear.

Sometimes you’ll completely forget there was an election happening.

That’s okay.

Awareness will eventually tap you on the shoulder.

There will be another ballot.

And another.

And another.

So maybe character development isn’t about declaring:

This is who I am.

Maybe it is about waking up every morning and asking:

Who am I voting for today?

Then making breakfast.

Going to work.

Paying the bill.

Having the conversation.

Holding the boundary.

Telling the truth.

Choosing again.

Because you do not become yourself all at once.

You become yourself one vote at a time.

Funny enough, Monica called me on my lunch break later that same day. She needed me to check my email for the Netflix verification code because, apparently, she still benefits from being my older sister. 😂

I reminded her about the sunflower-seed story and she laughed immediately.

“You were so bad back then.”

She also maintains that she was an excellent big sister because she let me get away with quite a bit of my nonsense.

For the record, a few years ago I bought her one of those enormous buckets of sunflower seeds from Sam’s Club, so I believe reparations have officially been made.

Little Jasmine took the seeds.
Adult Jasmine replaced them in bulk.

Growth. 😂

Closing Reflections

Most character is not built during dramatic moments.

It is built in ordinary decisions nobody applauds.

The text you decide not to send.

The truth you choose to tell.

The boundary you keep.

The apology you make.

The money you save.

The gossip you refuse to participate in.

The way you speak to yourself after making a mistake.

Those moments may look small, but they are casting votes.

Take a moment and ask yourself:

Who am I trying to become?

What qualities do I want that person to embody?

Where am I currently making choices from fear, approval-seeking, obligation, or old programming rather than my actual values?

What choices look “good” from the outside but may be coming from a wound underneath?

When I make a mistake, do I treat it as proof that I haven’t changed—or as another opportunity to choose again?

What evidence already exists that I am becoming the person I hoped to be?

And finally:

What is one vote I can cast today for the person I want to become?

Maybe it is tiny.

Let it be tiny.

You do not need to become your future self before bedtime.

You just need to recognize when the ballot is in your hand.

Fear may cast some votes.

Old programming may cast a few.

Sometimes you’ll forget there was an election happening at all. 😂

None of that means you failed.

Awareness will eventually return and hand you another ballot.

Choose again.

Then again.

Then again.

Because you do not become yourself all at once.

You become yourself one vote at a time.