In a wild healing way, everything buried here is awakening. An inexperienced self-love is sprouting at the edges of my bruised soul and through the obvious pain, I can glimpse at the other side of my idea of wholesomeness. How have I been so unkind to my surviving self?
For some time now, I have struggled to identify the woman who stares back at me on mirroring surfaces as I have been conditioned to look for her in other people's projections and validations even though they have zero clue what she is all about.
Why I keep restraining the collective energies that make her up from engulfing everything they can is a mystery to my higher power. Also, what the need of wielding these spiritual tools if you can not use them to keep yourself alive would be? Such is what keeps me company every night sleep has said no to my humble invite.
To then slowly realize that there is more to me being who I currently say I am or who I identify as is mind-blowing. That I can only be me if every version of me that came before the current me can count as a welcomed attempt at exploring my authenticity.
It then takes starting to accept these forgotten parts of my coloured soul and revisiting the past wearing a kinder expression on my inner critic. You can say that understanding that love can only sprout from the same desert I left it to die for it to radiate to the external world is finally sinking into the emptiness that has been everything to my damaged self.
The wrath of loving what I couldn't have has spread to bring everything I believed about trusting anyone with my overly clingy heart to its knees. I remember having so many questions but only coming up with lethal assumptions to ease the raging anger towards myself.
Every emotion that I have felt in between whirls me back to that season where everything remains too complex to put in gentler words but for there to be an intentional and healthy transformation, I have to recycle my reservations about opening up for such a connection again.
And nothing is harder than unlearning what you told yourself to move past trauma or learning how to be soft. Vulnerability is seen as an act of domestic terrorism by my wounded ego and for so long, glorifying my ability to intake and integrate my suffocating light with pain was something I held closer than letting go.
Even though choosing the latter is much more difficult and requires inconceivable emotional strength, I cowardly choose to hang onto what hurts. Why does healing entail so much as there is always another layer of myself intended to die for me to unearth a more self-aware version of myself?
...the once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage continues.
...wambuku w.
