I like change, I find it energizing. It probably has to do with how optimistic I am. I expect only good to come from change, even if it’s buried under layers of debris and cumbersome issues.
I can sense now the change I am immersed in. I can see the stagnant phase I am walking away from. I cherish that time but as I leave its gates, I look back lovingly and I look forward longingly. I am ready. Perhaps I should feel more compelled to linger and long for what is no longer: a privileged, self indulgent stop on my journey; a safe space to retreat when I needed to care for myself and my family; a good old fashion midlife crisis. More accurately though, it was a calling home to the magical, unseen forces that silently flow through our days. The ones so easily ignored for the seemingly imperative survival we all feel compelled to rise to each day; to respond to; to react too.
There has been an increasing silence in my existence these past few years. It was a settling of sorts and I don’t feel like myself anymore. Perhaps I am getting to know this new skin I find myself in. I marvel at the different versions of me: who I was as a child, as a teenager, as a self-conscious young adult. I marvel at how self-hatred seeped into my being an how much remediation work I have performed to extract those thoughts and feelings from my being.
Then I see the same toxic traits reflected in my girls and I know I inherently planted those seeds. How can I call out the love and beauty that so desperately needs to be cultivated? Often I blame myself for all the ways I’m failing these two. It feels right to do this, familiar, expected. Ironically, it is this practice that models how they come to treat themselves.
It is so easy for me to hate myself and to value others more. What kind of creature have I become? What stories have I been feeding myself all these years? I must be good to myself, so they can also see how to give themselves grace when they least want to, when they feel desperately disparaging about who they are.