This little girl entered the coffee shop where I’m working. Maybe she’s 11 or 12. She’s got a fringed purse slung over her shoulder, and even from here I can sense how much she loves that purse. She marches over to the counter and orders a drink. She’s shimmering with
independence and possibility, and her swagger transports me back to when I was that age. I was scared and unsure, but I still held space for possibility and magic, just like this child.
It's occurred to me more over the years that life has hit me hard, but that isn't the end of the story. I've felt so defeated, but rather than totally overcoming it, I've clung to it as a sort of invisibility cloak.
Being terrified of further harm and hurt has become a personality trait that has held me back from participating in my life. Cleverly, my subconscious has redirected my brain so it believes that all the mundane busyness is true engagement. My steady refrain is t
hat I'll focus on myself when things aren't so hectic.
I started to confront this broken-down passive version of myself in 2016, and it is amazing how far I've come. But I don't want the growth I've experienced thus far to lull me into complacency. I desperately want to re-claim all the years I could only focus on surviving. The me of those years deserves a whole-hearted life, and I'll use that as motivation to hold space for possibility and magic, even when it feels as insubstantial as air.
Here's to paying attention and fighting for joy.