Life didn’t stop when I was a teenager and I bent myself into a box of steel expectations, and made a conscious decision to live the way I thought others wanted me to. To act the way I was expected. To say the things others needed to hear.
I’ve always felt that the decisions I’ve made along my way – and I’ve had my share of regrettable or downright stupid ones! — led me to this point in my life. I should be thankful for the lessons learned.
And lessons were learned.
I learned that it’s a suicide mission to carry a bowl of hot spaghetti sauce across the living room without using hot pads. I learned to never toss a hard rubber ball up and down in a room with a glass light fixture — or at least not to catch the ball with glass shards raining down. I learned that my big sister loves me no matter what. I learned that when I make my mind up about something, it’s often impossible to change it back.
I learned that it’s more important to take a mid-day nap with my infant daughter than to squeeze in two hours of writing time.
I’ve learned that everyone has something they’re scared to share with others. And everyone thinks they’re the only one who does.
Being true to my Self does not equal “BAD”
I’m still learning that I’m not a bad person. That I have something valuable to share. That I can stand on my own two feet and make my own decisions and defend my opinions. That my history does not define me.
Just like what happened to the old cardboard boxes in our spider-infested workshop when I was growing up, the sides of my box have worn thin at the seams. One edge is pulling away. Tearing down. My pretzel-soul is stretching these days.
My feet have felt their foundation. My legs are stronger. My back is straighter.
My head is lifting enough so that I can see over the side of the worn out box. It’s been dark in here… but the light outside is fresh. Clean. Bright and warm.
Inviting me to stand, rooted firmly and ready to step on out.