The three-pound tangle of nerves and blood vessels inside my skull warns that looking right in front of me is too painful, so instead I’ve been looking back at the 13-year-old who overheard snickering boys remarking that she was too fat for the chair. I’ve been looking back, attempting to quantify the years and tears required to look in the mirror and find belonging so I can gauge if I have the stamina to do it all over again. I’ve been looking back at long nights wrestling with demons, presenting convincing arguments about why death would be easier, desperate to remember the formula that put them back in their cage.
I’ve been looking forward to bills I'm not sure how I’ll pay. I’ve been looking forward to moments when I can’t take care of myself, wondering who will. I’ve been looking forward only to see nothing but uncertainty.
Today, I accidentally let my attention linger right in front of me for a few moments. There, I noticed a pile of black fur, the ink on my wrists faded by long days in the sun, and waves crashing on the shoreline. I also saw something else: people who are watching me swivel my head and heart every which way, yet still extend their hands and hearts in my direction. Maybe tomorrow I’ll linger with what’s in front of me little longer.
PS: On the topic of messy middles—The wise, gracious, and playful recently chatted with my colleagues and I about what keeps us from being curious, makes us fear slowing down, and how to trust our own process. If you related to this post at all, give it a listen.
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