I remember feeling I was magic
as a child
I remember knowing I’d do great things
When asked to submit a writing of my story
I thought I had none.
What is my story?
I can’t think of one.
The summer I overcame near-blindness; or waking from freezing winters of depression; or finding my breath after anxiety and trauma.
And more. There’s always so. much. more.
And then, with the flutter of a flame
is the knowing
that my story is thinking I have no story.
My story is learning not to soften my words
so my accomplishments sound less powerful.
My story is growing to love myself free from shame
for not staying in my box,
sized up so nice.
My story is of clearing the tangles and webs of limiting self beliefs
and weaving them into silk.
My story is of the burgeoning freedom of self, of life, of passion.
My story is of releasing the stronghold of fear and inviting in acceptance, and love
and giving myself permission to fail and rise again
My story is of the salt and sweat of being human,
of realizing the so-called-battle is with myself
where the weaponry of criticism and hatred and loathing
is replaced with love
And as quickly as the candle again flickers
or a star twinkles
or you feel a glimpse of hope
is knowing this is not my story.
This story is ours.