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.
When is good, enough?
My brain can be trained to notice the feelings as something apart from me, clouds floating through the sky, sometimes maybe bringing rain or a storm. As in real life, we can grumble at the rain, take shelter from the storm, but inherently understand it’s part of our life here on Earth, that the rain is needed for life. We don’t analyze what we could have done to stop the rain from happening.
Yesterday, I had the realization that I’ve been carrying around something since a very young age, and I’m only now feeling the true weight of it, and how much it slows me down.
It’s so hard to see these signs when they’re close up, happening to me. But, there they are, in my recent blog posts, in my journal, churning quite literally in my gut.
That space between being prepared and doing the thing is where I create a lot of my own anxiety. Where I make it hard. Where I fall for my reptilian brain interpreting fear as something to avoid at all costs instead of jumping into.