I’ve been thinking a lot about where I was two years ago at this time. I was living this dreamy little life. Except. Except I couldn’t shake this feeling of wilting, withering, shrinking away inside. Back then, when I looked into my future, I could only picture a shell of myself moving through the world.
And it was terrifying.
It broke me just about every day in a silent and savage way from January to March.
Those cruelest of months.
It wasn’t until I’d deconstructed that life and started over again (all at once and then very slowly like all good renovations), that I started to meet these old parts of myself that I didn’t even know I’d been missing. I hadn’t noticed their aching absence until they started to return to me, filling me up again. I hardly had names for them, only by the way they felt when they started to root down and grow again. Stronger this time. Bolder. Braver.
God, how I had missed myself.
I had taken myself for granted somewhere between 15 and 25. Maybe the only way to realize how fucking glorious and precious and dear I was to myself was to really experience what it felt like to be without it. Maybe that was the only way to understand it, the only way to learn. There was and still is a deep joy in meeting myself again. A healer I saw that spring called it the “exquisite pleasure of reclaiming” my sense of self. And it was such a relief to hear that then, but it becomes clearer and more palpable as more time passes.
I’m really grateful for how I’m living now. It’s another dreamy little life I’ve built. Except. Except this time, I feel more seen.