I have been given this one beautiful life to live and what have I done with it?
Limits, control, believing the worst, losing myself, trading myself, giving myself away for a promise, a song, a look, a wish, only to end up empty, lost and alone; longing for a place called home that I searched tirelessly for in other people, places, things, degrees, jobs, booze, cigarettes, weed, men, only to discover that it couldn’t give me what I needed, it only led me more astray.
When I exhausted all the external roads, I finally looked inside and there it was all along, home, belonging, purpose, passion, enoughness, that I had been seeking.
There she was, me, the one I had abandoned, forsaken, thrown away, locked up, looked upon with disdain, her naivety, gullibleness, all made me ashamed to be her.
I traded myself for a promise of something better, love, friendship, fitting in, belonging and acceptance. To sit in places I didn’t belong with people to whom I didn’t belong, I had to become someone I wasn’t.
And as I looked upon myself, I felt pity, shame and compassion. If I couldn’t love and accept myself, how could anyone else? If I couldn’t kiss my own wounds and make them better, why would anyone else? If I couldn’t see the beauty in what I had been through, why would anyone else?
If I couldn’t stand tall with my battle scars shining in gold, how could I expect to be seen as a wariorress? If I hid the battles in which I had fought and lost, in the ones I fought and won, how would I ever see that my scars were not flaws but proof of showing up for life, even when it kept kicking the shit out of me.
I could have picked the easy path, the comfortable path, but I didn’t come here to choose easy, I came here to choose life, to choose me, to claim the path of the warrior, to shatter walls, expectations and glass ceilings as I rose from the people who would rather not see, look at, believe or feel.
My rising casts a shadow of the darkness that lives. My presence dictates a knowing of someone who has seen and known the darkest of days, of someone who fell and sank into the darkest places, yet rose still.
My rising means I choose me, her, she, over they. I choose myself, my inner home to the choking silence of acceptance and the suffocating loneliness of living in the wrong life, for the promise of being enough.
When I am enough, exactly as I am, wounds and scars that make you uncomfortable, desire that makes me crazy, big dreams that make others feel small. For your uncomfortableness in the truth, your shrinking in the face of desire, your smallness have nothing to do with me, unless I accept your version that I shouldn’t make others uncomfortable with the truth, that I shouldn’t want more or too much because it’s greedy or I’m never satisfied.
And surely I should dull myself so others can shine.
For all my life I believed this – that there was something wrong with me. I believed others versions of what I should be …
It wasn’t until I went inside and reclaimed me that I realized the longing went away, the desperate search ended, for now I belong to me.
As I rise higher and higher, there is less that weighs me down. As I reclaim deeper and deeper the warrior that lives inside me, as I let my battle scars guide me instead of hide me, I am whole, healed, vibrant and enough.
And that is all I ever wanted, to feel safe and nurtured inside my own body, and the only one who could give it to me, was me.
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