The shape of my body is surrender—to be seen in less glorious ways, to have no compulsion to separate or hide what I feel, what I fear, and what I’ve lost. I am seen and taken care of. I am loved in utterly surprising ways. It feels like a homecoming and there’s sweeping joy just knowing how much I’ve yearned for a moment like this. I, too, carry carefully what they share with me.
I am forever the girl at the edge of breaking who quickly rushes to hold it together, to keep the pieces intact. And I perform the happiness, drape it over me like a cloak, I do it so often, and for so long, that I can hardly tell the difference anymore. Thankful for friends who witness the shedding, who are unafraid to see and touch the bone of a truth that might scare them a little. But they stay and stay and stay, choosing me, when I can barely choose myself.
I’ve been thinking about ways to write this post without sounding like a girl on the internet whose heart’s a little shattered and has experienced an incredibly difficult month. Because while that is true, there are also other truths I’ll choose to dwell on instead.