Pulverized Pieces

I have a reverent respect for hitting rock bottom. Not because I like pain or suffering, but because of what I’ve learned from being there:

Crashing and shattering into pieces is not meant for us to fall apart. It’s meant for us to break into place.

There are lots of metaphors to describe transformation. A butterfly in a cocoon. A seed taking root in the soil. A diamond in the rough. I love them all. But one, less known, is the Japanese philosophy “kintsugi,” or, the art of broken glass.

Kintsugi is a method of pottery that mends broken ceramics together with a beautiful gold, silver or platinum lacquer. The idea of kintsugi is that the new creation–the broken pieces put together and melded with gold–is even more beautiful than the original, untouched pottery.

This particular metaphor of transformation speaks to me because it takes the very pieces that were broken, and makes something even greater with them. I, too, was the shattered pottery. But being in a million shards gives us a million new ways to rebuild ourselves into a beautiful work of art.

In order to rise…

We must fall.

In order to transform…

We must break open.

In order to be free…

We must reclaim ourselves.

When we embrace our vulnerabilities, love can mend the shattered shards of our hearts–like the golden lacquer–and we can see the light of day again. Hitting rock bottom is our invitation to rebuild the pulverized pieces of who we were, into the transformed person we are called to become. It’s not about putting the pieces back in the places they were, but realizing our imperfections add to the masterpiece that we already are.

I am the kintsugi; broken and beautiful.

And so are you.

Crossing The Bridge to Healing

I took a Positive Psychology class a few years back. It’s not quite as hokey as it sounds, but also not as profound as I wanted it to be. I’ll save you from taking it and let you in on the main lesson: studies show that cultivating a gratitude practice increases happiness. Mind blowing, I know.

Here’s the problem:  I’m really bad at forcing gratitude when I’m in a rut. It feels fake, like plastered stage makeup. I had hit rock bottom the previous year with my anorexia and ever since had been wallowing in neck deep depression. Practicing gratitude felt like trying to smile in mud.

Ew.

One of the homework assignments was to write down three things we’re grateful for every night throughout the semester. Although I understood the concept of the assignment, it didn’t help me to see through the lens of gratitude. I hadn’t worked through the post-traumatic-stress that anorexia had put me through and I certainly hadn’t rebuilt my relationship with myself. I needed more than a strip of paper with happy thoughts on it.

I needed to find meaning in my depression. I wanted others to know that they’re not alone and that they can heal, but I had to heal first. I had to overcome my inner battles so that I could help others. I wasn’t sure how this would happen, or where this would lead me, but it gave me purpose. 

For my birthday, my family had given me the opportunity to work with a music producer to record some songs I’d written. I’d always intuitively found my fingers at the piano when I needed to feel better. But this time, I wasn’t going to my bedroom to play, but to the recording studio.

I remember sitting at the piano in the studio that day. I was wearing the big headphones. The ones you see in the movies. The microphone had the circular screen (a pop filter) in front of it. This is the real deal, I thought to myself. The mic was turned high. Every noise amplified.

I remember singing into the microphone for the first time. I’d never heard my own voice in a mic before. It felt as though I was encountering someone I’d never met. The voice coming through the mic sounded far different from the chaos inside. Her voice was fragile and tender and clear. Who is this? 

Recording was like the abrupt stillness that comes after a huge thunderbolt. Or when a really dramatic scene cuts in a movie. A light switched. Something settled in my soul. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere.

The producer I worked with that day became my mentor. He critiqued my songwriting, and challenged and encouraged me as an artist, writer, and singer. Most of all, he believed in me. I took every word he said to heart and with his guidance, I wrote an album of thirteen original songs.

My songs were far more reminiscent of journal entries than a pop hit you’d hear on the radio. They were raw and transparent. My insides were oozing like the fizz that spews out from a shaken up Coke bottle. But my longing for serenity and healing became the goal I set my eyes on, and I would do anything it took to get there. This meant working through intensely difficult emotions that had become dormant. This also meant getting up close to the mic even though I felt as though I couldn’t open my mouth. 

We tend to think that our vulnerabilities are our weak spots; the parts of us that cannot be seen or we wouldn’t be loved. But in reality, our vulnerabilities are precious wounds that allow us to be loved even more deeply. The deeper the wound, the greater capacity to be filled.

I picture healing as crossing a bridge. Walking across the bridge takes faith and courage. But if we don’t cross the bridge, we wallow in the water below forever. Creating my album is what took me across the bridge and lead me to realize the unique purpose of my music:  to help others cross their bridge.

As I crossed my bridge to healing, I learned that it is by accepting, surrendering, letting go, and trusting that I find serenity in my heart. Looking back, I would not change anything about my life, experiences, or things I had to overcome. In fact, I’m grateful for all of it. Our perceived setbacks in life are the very forces that pull back the arrow to throttle it forward even stronger.

As it turns out, my psychology class did have a thing or two to teach me. I have since adopted the habit of writing down what I’m most grateful for every night to put it in a jar to fill. It helps me to focus my mind on all of life’s blessings and to cherish even the smallest of joys. But this time, it doesn’t feel forced. I’m attuned to the birds singing around me and the voice of my own quiet heartsong.

Dear reader, I know the rickety bridge to healing is difficult. Each step feels messy and painstakingly uncertain. But you are ready to cross the bridge. There is courage amidst your fear and hope amidst your despair. Each step is leading you closer to the person you truly are, who is waiting on the other side – healed and whole. Your pain becomes your strength. Don’t be afraid. 

To listen to a meditation song I wrote, click here:  Oh Soul

Komerobi: Finding Hope in Unexpected Places

Komerobi is a Japanese word I recently came across which describes the sunlight that streams through the branches of a tree. Although I love the image – even more, I love what it symbolizes to me.

Light can only shine through the dark.

Sometimes life can feel like the spindly, spider-like branches of a tree; dark and dead. The branches encage our very being like arms gripping us. But the light shining through the cracks reminds us that there’s something more beyond the horizon.

I remember walking on the boardwalk beside the water a few years back. I was in the city so this was my place of serene solitude amidst the busy, chaotic streets. I got to the end of the boardwalk, and spanning the water was a big bridge. Peering under the arch of the bridge was the setting sun. I could see the fiery orange shining through. It captured my attention.

After developing anorexia, I suffered from a deep depression that made it difficult for me to function on a daily basis. It drastically impacted my sleeping, eating and ability to work. On that particular day, I was barely trudging.

If you’ve ever experienced depression, you know its dark doom. It’s like you are feeling too much and too little at the same time. You feel dead inside but not numb enough. Each breath is both a resignation and a triumph. The most difficult part is that it seems there’s no end in sight.

We’ve all been stuck on a car trip and had to go to the bathroom. It’s awful. Passing the blue information sign on the side of the road that says, “Rest Area, 6 Miles” becomes the most beautiful sign you’ve ever seen. Knowing the discomfort has an end makes waiting to go to the bathroom far more tolerable.

But depression feels like the complete opposite.

No escape.

Not only is there no end in sight, but you don’t know if there ever will be.

Gray fog consumes you and follows you around.

Dreary. Drained. Despondent.

Seeing the light of the sun beyond the bridge that evening seemed to capture the picture of my life. There is more. Although it didn’t feel this way at the time, I told myself over and over, pain is temporary. Seasons of struggle rise and fall like the waves, but nothing lasts forever. As I stood awestruck at the boardwalk that night, this came to me:

“Inside this struggle there is light and hope.”

I’ve come to realize that hope is often found in unexpected places – such as the sunset that evening which seemed to be smiling at me. That glimpse of firelight was the message of komerobi for me. I took a few pictures as a reminder for the days to come when it seemed there’s no light to peer through the branches of my heart.

Some seasons of life are just hard. Sometimes these seasons last longer than we want them to. But perhaps the light of hope is not outside or beyond our struggle, but inside of it. It’s finding hope in the little – and easily overlooked – places that can uplift and awaken our weary and tired spirit.  I like to call these instances “God moments” because I don’t believe they’re coincidental. They come just when we need it.

Dear reader, I understand it’s hard to keep your chin up when the weight of depression – or any burden – is pulling you down like gravity. It feels as though you’re walking with a twenty ton backpack on your shoulders through quicksand. With each step, you’re sucked further down into the vacuum. The world around you keeps going, but for you, each moment feels heavier. 

In these darker moments, remember komerobi – the light dancing between the branches of the tree. Remember the sun peeking from around the corner of the bridge. Remember that where there are shadows light is near.

                           The sun will rise even in the rain. And so will you.

Check out my corresponding video here! Click here: Finding Hope

Becoming Human

One of the best things I ever decided to do was to become human.

I spent a long time being a machine–no needs, no emotions, no help. I didn’t even know I had needs.

Hence, anorexia.

I was disconnected and blocked within my own self. I wasn’t aware of my emotional life and consequently, bottled up without even knowing it. My thoughts were whirling chaos, but I was not in tune with them; I only felt the dizziness and repercussion that the thoughts produced–sweaty palms, choked throat, churning stomach.

Strong feelings of excruciating shame that there was something horrendously ugly about me, and a strong belief that nothing good could come out of me were paralyzing. Although these powerful feelings were present, I didn’t know how to feel them, so I disengaged.

My realization that I’m-totally-not-okay-and-that’s-why-my-life’s-been-a-mess-for-years occurred when I was creating my album Serenity. Singing into the microphone made everything even more loud and clear. It felt like every single quiver in my voice was amplified, every insecurity shining under the spotlight.

For the first time in my life I truly heard myself and stepped into the raw experience of my feelings. I tuned out the world and tuned into my own heartsong. No running. No numbing.

Accessing that deeper part of myself in the studio felt like being sucked up into a tornado. I was overwhelmed by the acuteness of actually feeling my feelings because I’d become so accustomed to fearing and denying them. But this time, I refused to run away.

We’ve grown up in a world learning to numb, not learning to feel. We are raised in schools that teach math and science, but do not teach us how to cope with pain. Because no one talks about these topics of struggle, we are given the message that our emotional and mental pain is a source of weakness and that there must be something wrong with us for experiencing them.

Self-protection becomes necessary when we are unable to sit in the discomfort of reality because we don’t know how to deal with it. In response, we either cover up or isolate. We stay hidden and we feel lonely. We become cookie-cutter conformers and lose sight of our true nature.

Although it’s terrifying to go against the current of the culture, it’s dangerous territory to swim alongside and be washed away by it.

If we learned how to feel, we’d be able to integrate our whole selves – mind, body, soul – and we wouldn’t need alcohol, drugs or food to un-feel. We’d have real, satisfying connections with ourselves and others. We need to effectuate the message of being human and feeling rather than living life being remote controlled by a crappy culture. 

As I look back now on my dear little self, I understand why I struggled with anxiety and depression. I understand why I learned to dissociate from my feelings. They were so strong and felt so real and I didn’t know how to untangle them. I’ve now learned that being present with my internal experiences as they rise–like I did for the first time in the studio–allows them to pass by without me being tumbled inside them.

Being human kind of sounds like a diagnosis these days, I know. But the real issue is being a robotic machine following the rules-no needs, no emotions, no help. Sure, to be human means we aren’t invincible or impenetrable; but that’s the beauty of it:  embracing our humanity allows us to be ourselves. And this creates authentic connections.

I’m choosing to rise above the storm surge by connecting with my true nature. I’m going to truly show up in the world, by first showing up for myself. This is what it means to become human.

I don’t know about you, but I would rather be myself in a world that doesn’t accept me, than be in a world where I can’t accept myself.

Check out my corresponding video here:  Becoming Human – Learning to Connect

What I Would Tell Her

I would assume most of you don’t think much about sitting in a chair. You might notice if the chair is particularly creaky. Or wobbly. In general, I think it’s safe to say, most of us just sit in a chair without conscious thought. I would assume the same thing about walking to class. Or walking to and from your car.

I used to be like that too.

I remember distinctly when the feeling of sitting in a chair became very noticeable. Taking my seat at the table, my tail bone was the first thing to touch the chair, followed by my sit bones which dug into the wood. My body was hollow. My bones brittle. This became the norm for me.

I remember parking my car in the garage at the community college I was attending for my first day of classes. It was a cold winter day. Walking the short distance from my car to class, I became very conscious of each step. I could feel the space between my bony thighs as I took each step and walking made my legs feel like stilts. My attention narrowed in on the slow, weak beat of my heart. The area around my ribcage felt hollow.  I wasn’t sure if I would make it to class.

I was taking a biology class with the same teacher I’d had the previous semester. I walked into class. My skin was gray. My eyes were indents in my skeletal face. I greeted my professor.

I don’t remember her reaction. My classmates – some of whom I’d had the previous semester – never mentioned anything about me looking deathly, for which I am very grateful. Class began, class ended. I drove home that night, feeling very accomplished – and relieved – that I’d made it back. I scrambled over to the fireplace to warm up. Sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees, I could feel my tailbone grinding into the tile.

This was my life for four months.

Everyday a struggle.

Everyday a threat.

Weaker each moment.

Colder each day.

It was as though I was killing myself without any ability to do anything about it. Developing anorexia had come over me so fast, it’s as though I woke up one day, brittle and deformed. The accelerated speed of my complete life turnover added to the intensity and feeling of having been invaded. What had happened to me?

I did not starve myself and develop anorexia because I thought I was fat. It is not something I chose, either. However, I do believe there is a common denominator between all eating disorders, addictions, and unhealthy habits. These symptoms are telling us that some unaddressed issue needs to be brought into the light.

But shame does not like light.

Shame is suffocating. And shame became a very close friend of mine during this time. I was utterly disgusted with what had happened to my body. My social life reduced to being non-existent. My home became the hospitalization that the doctors threatened; and I became invisible to the world.

After four months of my body struggling to live, by sheer will power, I decided to eat again. Each spoonful of cereal was swallowed with tears and torture. Although my dangerously low bodyweight only lasted four months, I entered into a bottomless bout of debilitating depression that lasted the following four years.

I had become someone I was completely not. I had come too close to touching the last breath of death that I didn’t know how to live;although I was breathing, something inside me had died.

As much of a toll anorexia took on me physically, it was my inner-spirit that starved the most. My body merely wore the truth. Recovering was an uphill battle. Rising each day was an act of faith and often felt like a shot in the dark. But I refused to give up.

The desire and belief that I could use my struggle to help others became my strength. Recovering was no longer only about me, but for everyone else I wanted to impact one day. I would turn my pain into purpose.

We don’t always see a glimmer of light to guide the path. Our journey can feel like an endless valley. But if I could go back to the seventeen year old girl who lay weak and alone and tell her one thing, it would be this: Your struggle, dear one, will become your strength. You will not be overcome.

Dear reader, I do not know what has brought you to my writing or how our paths crossed, but I pray and hope that whatever burdens you, grieves you, sorrows you; whatever it is that is still left unhealed… that you know this:  inside each of us is a limitless resilience. Struggling merely invites us to access that inner strength.

 
Check out the corresponding video I made to go with this article here: Struggle To Strength

Unlocking The Door to Who You Truly Are.

My closest friends and family (and pretty much anyone who knows me) have given me the affectionate label “soul-searcher,” which is basically an artistic way of saying I like deep things and I’m totally dorky. That’s ok. I proudly accept the label.

I spent a long time searching for home. A place of safety. A feeling of comfort. The whole cliche “home is inside yourself” became an even greater source of conflict because I didn’t even know how to be at home with myself. I felt far more like a foreigner in my own skin.

However, the soul-searcher in me liked the concept of finding my inner home, so I pursued what I thought that meant, by focusing on sitting still with myself. This little retreat felt like trying to force open a locked door. A bulletproof door at that. I didn’t like how I felt in the silence. Trying to force myself into this  “home” created even more resistance. I often left these “visits” feeling frustrated and agitated.

It is much easier to deflect the truth and make up excuses. Sitting in the pit of repressed everything (“I’m fine!”, “Everything’s great!”) challenged me.  But honesty is a catalyst. That’s where the change happens.

This is when the concept of “self-vulnerability” came up, which I define as “the practice of creating a safe space within oneself to be honest and uncomfortable.” (I’m actually pretty convinced that the words ‘honest’ and ‘uncomfortable’ are synonyms and the dictionary just hasn’t caught on. Yet).

This practice of self-vulnerability did not mean I had to feel at home in myself. It did not mean I had to feel good at all.  Most of the time I didn’t. This meant that I would take time to create a “safe space” inside where I could be honest with myself. And that, my friends, is difficult.

It is a continuous practice, yes, and this journey does take time, but my persistent efforts have lead me to a place where I no longer feel abandoned by myself or a foreigner to myself.  Although it seems I tried every key on the keychain before getting it right, being honest and sitting with the discomfort is truly what allowed me to access a home that does exist.

Connecting with the things that gave me an urgent desire  to escape – most prominently the feeling of uncontrollable and insatiable anxiety – were the very things I needed to learn to sit with in order to feel at home in myself. In the dusty crevices of my vulnerability, I became aware of the things I could change and the things I had to accept.  This is where I found the key I needed to unlock the door of who I thought I was supposed to be so I could open the door to the person that I actually am.

It is totally okay to not be okay at all. But it’s not okay to abandon yourself in the process.  If you’ve lost the key to the door of your inner home, find it. Unlocking the door can feel scary, especially if the person on the other side has become a stranger. But take that step forward. Twist the doorknob. Who you truly are is on the other side. Are you ready to unlock the door?

Check out my corresponding video to go with this article here: Self-Vulnerability

Stranger.

The studio –  where my album, Serenity, came to be – was a little green room, in a small wood house with a tree growing through it. It was rustic and certainly conducive to fostering creativity. The lights in the studio, violins and guitars and other indistinguishable instruments hanging on the wall felt like home. And that place became my refuge.

Recording was where I encountered myself for the first time. My tendency to hide came flaring up. How can I be perfect and vulnerable all at the same time? The microphone felt all too close. Moments of debilitating shame, fear and vulnerability locked up my throat. The blaring red recording button would start the piano intro in my headphones. This meant my singing entrance was coming. I’d take a step towards the mic. Panic. All I could hear was my mind screaming, “Oh no, will I be able to swallow? My throat is closing in. My throat is closing in. MY THROAT IS CLOSING IN.”

Creating Serenity was not a week long process of studio time, but a culmination of studio days here and there for a year and a half, each one taking more out of me than the one before. Each night before I went to the studio, I would roll around restlessly and anxiously in bed, unable to sleep. The impenetrable shell which I hid behind was cracking; like the sand tumbling around in the waves, my outer shell was eroding. I dreaded facing my producer because he’d seen me at my rawest and most unguarded state every time we recorded. I could barely handle the shame of it.

I started recording days with an early morning walk to gather myself, a cup of tea to soothe my throat, and the 50 minute commute. Sessions were typically six hours long, and each time I left feeling completely emptied out. Although I had finally found where I belonged for the first time, my songs resurfaced e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g I’d ever been through and learned to suppress. I had a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage inside me, including everything anorexia had taken out of me. Though the music brought up all of the trauma and all of the emotions with it…this process of walking through the pain is what healed me.

To the world I had become a stranger, but I didn’t want to be a stranger to myself anymore.

Nothing compares to speaking the truth of your soul. Especially the dark night. It is the scariest, most vulnerable and beautiful thing you can do. Things often get worse before they get better, but not recognizing your own reflection is the greater tragedy.

What I’ve learned is that healing takes three main things:

1. Awareness – having pain or needing to cry does not mean there’s something wrong with you. Seek help.

2. Own it – walk through the fire; you are a warrior. The only way out of the pain is through it.

3. Overcome it – having support, and encouragement will give you strength. Lean on others. Acknowledging and owning your pain will lead to overcoming it.

If you haven’t found what gives your soul safety and serenity, go find it. We all need somewhere to go to be recharged. We cannot hide and simultaneously be healed. So come out of hiding. Break through the shell. Find whatever gives you the release. Don’t be a stranger to your dear self. Walk through the pain. Serenity is awaiting on the other side.

Diamonds.

It was a sunny Spring afternoon.  I was in therapy with my counselor. It had been long weeks and months worth of heavy, exhausting, and painful therapy. Insecurities, wounds and fears were rising to the surface and purging through my skin. It was as though a bright light had come over me and shone itself on all of my pain. I couldn’t hide.

But that’s not what therapy is for.

Therapy is to un-hide. It’s to shed the layers and walls we put up. It’s to explore our own nature. Like many people, I’d become very good at numbing and running away from the pain. And if I wasn’t numbing or running away from the pain, I was completely covering it up only to drown in it later when I was alone. I felt the pressure to be perfect very strongly. 

On this particular day, the jagged edges of my past were not digging into my skin. I felt a transformative energy rising inside me. Finally, I thought. The hard work I’m doing is paying off. The conversation between me and my therapist went something like this:

“Therapist,” I said, “You know what resonates with me?”

“No?” Therapist inquired.

“Diamonds,” I said.

At this point in therapy, we’d been digging through the debilitating beliefs I had about myself which had formed during my childhood.  We all have them. My strongest belief was that there was something fundamentally wrong with me at my very core. Nothing about me was beautiful. Inside I felt like an abandoned cave. Not a beautiful cave where the treasure is hidden. The dark, imprisoning, sharp rocks kind of cave. I was ashamed of my existence.

“Yes, diamonds,” I reiterated. “I think at the core of our being everyone is a diamond. Pure, precious, unique. But so often we get covered up by the pain, wounds, and insecurities we experience through life. Many people miss this reality because when we look inside ourselves, all we can see are the things covering up the diamond.”

“And,” I continued, “We can only get to the diamond that is inside each one of us if we are willing to dig through the grit, dare to uncover the unknown beneath it all, and encounter our true selves. I’m the diamond in the rough!” I proudly exclaimed.

In this moment, I realized the lie I believed about myself being inherent garbage was complete trash. I had inherent beauty that wascovered up by garbage. I no longer felt the need to hate myself as punishment for my existence. There was treasure inside me and it was my duty to uncover it.

The word “diamond” comes from a greek word meaning “unalterable” or “unbreakable.” Although hitting rock bottom certainly didn’t make me feel indestructible, it was the journey of climbing up that made me realize my inherent worth is “unalterable” and “unbreakable.” As a diamond is formed under extreme conditions – excruciating pressure and heat – so often we are transformed most powerfully through extreme conditions that seem unbearable.

Not to overuse the treasure-map-cave theme (I’m a sucker for metaphors), but turning towards our pain is the map that leads to the treasure inside each one of us. We’ve got to enter into the pain. It’s one of the best things we can do for ourselves (only second to eating chocolate).

This therapy session was not one of the (many) sessions where I left carrying a handful of tissues, trying to look like a composed human being walking to my car. It was a strutting to the car thinking, watch out, world, homegirl is on fire and she’s unstoppable kind of day.

I will be the first to tell you that therapy is hard work. Healing is a lonnng journey. But it can be done by looking pain in the face, bravely, and knowing you are stronger. It’s trusting that the dark night of the soul is leading to a greater awakening. There is light at the end of the tunnel. There is a diamond in the rough.  And that diamond is you. 

Becoming Free: Choosing to be Brave

Being brave looks different from person to person. Brave can mean giving your heart away when it has been shattered before. Brave can mean saying no to someone instead of being everything for everybody. Brave can mean risking your life and marching into battle.

For others, brave is not as romantic or heroic sounding. For me, being brave means looking someone in the eyes when my hair doesn’t feel “just right” and when I don’t have a brush of eye-liner on my upper eyelid. Brave means being seen as I am. So imperfect. So real.

I think I was born with an extra dose of vulnerability. Fragile and sensitive. Looking into someone’s eyes with a naked face or when my hair’s not braided just so or if it’s hanging down my cheek the wrong way, feels very exposing to me. We all have safety blankets. At least that’s what I’ve come to understand. It just so happens that my safety blanket is to try and hide under my own skin. It’s a pretty relentless and unachievable safety blanket.

And that’s a good thing.

Because we were not born to hide. I may have been born with an extra gene of vulnerability, but with vulnerability comes bravery and change. We were made to be brave. It’s in our DNA. We’re designed to fight off bears, march into battle, sleep in the wilderness, and perhaps most importantly: to show up and allow ourselves to be seen as we are. Beautifully broken.

Songwriting and recording my album Serenity allowed me to access and express my true, authentic self. I’d become a stranger to the person inside. I remember standing in the studio with my quivering lips an inch from the microphone, so unsure, so timid. But it was there in the studio that I unmasked the hidden darkness of my mental illness with my whole heart.  It was the most daunting, vulnerable and emotionally exposing experience of my life. 

But it changed my life because for the first time, I showed up and allowed myself to be seen. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done. And because I broke through the chains, I became free.

Ask yourself:  What does an act of bravery look like to you? Do you enter into the opportunity to be brave when you’re given the chance? Or do you shy away and retreat into your turtle shell?

Being brave is a choice.

Choose brave.

Dear Self

Dear Self,

You are beautiful. Just the way you are. You often hear a voice that tells you otherwise. Your feelings convince you that the voice you hear in your mind is true. It’s not.

Stop striving. Be still.

The part of you that will impact the world and transform hearts cannot be changed, modified, or made better or worse by your physical form. Don’t be afraid to be searching. Don’t be afraid to walk your unique path alone. Don’t be afraid to find yourself, no matter the path that takes you. Don’t be discouraged by the neigh-sayers–they don’t understand. Don’t be afraid of your own doubts and abilities. Your purpose is written in your soul, carved into your being by the One who created and formed you. 

Don’t hide. Don’t retreat into your shell. Shed your armor. You are beautiful even when you don’t think or feel that way. You can do nothing to change your inherent dignity. Believe this. You will only bloom and come to be if you allow yourself to be who you truly are.

Don’t lose hope. You have scars and wounds. But with them, you have strength and courage. Only love heals. Nurture your heart. Care for yourself. Honor who you are. Don’t be afraid of the destiny you are called to. Don’t look back or sideways or compare. And never stop fighting. Bravery and strength follow you where you go.