I’ve got wounds that I didn’t consent to. Blades to my skin that made me bleed before passing into this hemisphere. Passing through my mother’s dysfunction, into a universe of corruption. Birthed with courage, into a narrative that preceded me. Free from leashes that bound me. Transformed by empathy…with a narcissist for my shadow, a bruised inner child, and boundaries for my soul.
We were once children being parented until we became adults forced to reparent ourselves… and unravel layers that no longer serve us. And understand that crossing oceans for ourselves is our task and our task alone. And our boundaries are not selfish, but instead the most pleasurable experience life can offer. Learning when “Yes” feels good and when “No” feels even better. And still…the greatest boundary lesson is in the losses we endure against ourselves.
Sometimes, it matters not if we’re able to peel back our bandages in Kleenex tissues and on therapy couches. Sometimes, it matters more if we have the courage to wear our scars out in the open….while they’re bleeding love. We will never find comfort in healing or some euphoria that our work is finished. Only colors of ourselves that we recognize in different seasons. And no matter how many leaves we shed….or how cold winter gets…a beautiful summer is always calling.
I think many of us will find there’s more to life than “securing the bag”. What about the hard work that goes into securing ourselves? Shedding anxious and insecure attachments to narratives and people that hurt us the most. Being vulnerable.
There’s a certain kind of violence and outer body experience that comes with wanting to be loved so much. Wanting. Wishing. Hoping. For magic. Lusting for validation from those that bring you pain. To aspire for a life that does not breed isolation in bubble baths, wine glasses, and Beyonce lyrics. To chase cycles of manipulation in fear that intimacy will degrade you, until you are no more. I’ve known these cycles all too well for much of my life. Maybe just like you…from abandonment, mother wounds, and trauma. Sometimes, it feels like I’d much rather bang on closed doors than walk through entrances already wide open…with love. But, no more.
We are not victims. We are not helpless. We are not damsels in distress. Nor, do we need a prince charming. We are political warfare. We are courage. We are…preserved. And I trust that doors will open with keys we never knew we possessed…if we let it.
So, spread your legs, your bosom, your wings…and fly. Break…what you thought was already broken.