What if she’s the one who can see the authentic me, and I cannot? What if I can be vulnerable and open and real and all those things and still be seen as having my shit together? Like those aren’t diametrically opposed views? That being vulnerable doesn’t have to equal “hot mess.” That perhaps it’s _my_ definition of “put together” that needs to change, not hers.
One second isn't a lot of time. But it's long enough to forget and let the feeling go, instead of holding onto it.
On realizing that I’m tired of looking backward, that it’s time to turn forward and cross the bridge in front of me.
How is it possible that the unfeeling atoms in my body can align, know to align, to vibrate on a wavelength of grief and loss, at this exact time?
Equating fear with progress instead of with THERE'S A TIGER RUNNNNNN!
Gratitude doesn't have to be tied to guilt. Neither does anger.
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