A Quote by Deana Carter

Yes, we do mimic our parents in a lot of ways. — © Deana Carter
Yes, we do mimic our parents in a lot of ways.
I know having a social media profile removed is a 21st century privileged problem - but it is the way a lot of us live. These profiles mimic our physical selves and a lot of the time are even more important. They are ways to connect with an audience, to start discussion, and to create change.
One of the most painfully inauthentic ways we show up in our lives sometimes is saying "yes" when we mean "no," and saying "no" when we mean "hell yes." I'm the oldest of four, a people-pleaser - that's the good girl straitjacket that I wear sometimes. I spent a lot of my life saying yes all the time and then being pissed off and resentful.
My parents were not perfect, but no one's parents are. As childhoods go, mine was pretty comfortable and good in a lot of ways, and yet I still ended up with anxiety.
Stories mimic life like certain insects mimic leaves and twigs.
Most definitely always been a passion, and always been one of my goals in life as a young person, to have my own business. My dad gave us his entrepreneurial mindset, so that was also ingrained, as well as the tennis. So in a lot of ways it's a part of making my parents proud. I think we all want to make our parents proud, you know?
One of the most painfully inauthentic ways we show up in our lives sometimes is saying "yes" when we mean "no," and saying "no" when we mean "hell yes."
We hug, but there are no tears. For every awful thing that's been said and done, she is my sister. Parents die, daughters grow up and marry out, but sisters are for life. She is the only person left in the world who shares my memories of our childhood, our parents, our Shanghai, our struggles, our sorrows, and, yes, even our moments of happiness and triumph. My sister is the one person who truly knows me, as I know her. The last thing May says to me is 'When our hair is white, we'll still have our sister love.
Children or babies learn to mimic the vibration of the adults who surround them long before they learn to mimic their words.
If I were to pick the life of someone whom I professionally mimic in many ways, it would be Howard Hughes, surprisingly.
I asked myself if I would kill my parents to save his life, a question I had been posing since I was fifteen. The answer always used to be yes. But in time, all those boys had faded away, and my parents were still there. I was now less and less willing to kill them for anyone; in fact, I worried for their health. In this case, however, I had to say yes. Yes, I would.
There are a lot of ways to be expressive in life, but I wasn't good at some of them. Music, for instance. I was a distinct failure with the cello. Eventually, my parents sold the cello and bought a vacuum cleaner. The sound in our home improved.
The effort of using machines to mimic the human mind has always struck me as rather silly. I would rather use them to mimic something better.
A lot of our communication has now become digital, and it does not mimic the natural way we have evolved to communicate with each other, so it's almost like we have this muscle, these social-emotional skills, and they're atrophying, right?
Men are competent in groups that mimic the playground, incompetent in groups that mimic the family
Books are, at their heart, dangerous. Yes, dangerous. Because they challenge us: our prejudices, our blind spots. They open us to new ideas, new ways of seeing. They make us hurt in all the right ways. They can push down the barricades of ‘them’ & widen the circle of ‘us.
I think a lot of us who had these oddly shaped childhoods, in some ways we're hyper-capable. We're able to take care of ourselves in a lot of ways but it's like we're missing a piece. When everyone went to school to learn how to be a regular person we were sick that day. We compensate other ways. Alcohol and drugs is one of those ways. Instead of learning how to cope with our problems and deal with hardship and deal with anger, we just decide to get drunk and not care.
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