Last year, I published a blog post that laid my soul bare. At the time, I had no idea how much courage it would take to press 'publish' at the finish line. My life had a fault line running right through it, and I needed to make sense of the rubble and debris that kept me from moving forward. And even though the finished product was fairly polished, it came from a place of immense hurt and fragility. The new skin had barely taken shape and I felt anything but polished.
That was a year ago.
Today, I am joined by those familiar feelings—grief, nervousness, fear, and anxiety from exactly 365 days ago. It's funny what comes back up when you find yourself passing a landmark again. Sometimes I find it incredibly frustrating. I wish I were further in my journey. I wish I didn't flinch at the thought of being here again. My birthday. The day I've dreaded the last few years because it felt like a day of countless eyes examining me and my life. That dread birthed (or summoned) the parts of my psyche that exist solely to shield me from the pain of being seen.
Those parts of me have not been conquered over the last year. Or, I should say, they haven't been banished. Instead, I choose to embrace them, understand them, and truly make peace so that when they show up again, like now, I can remind them of the freedom I felt last time I chose to be seen and use my voice when they thought it safer to stay quiet.
Over the last year, I found myself re-reading that blog post quite frequently, especially when I started to question my steps or lose my footing. I could tap into my moments of learning, vulnerability, and strength, all collected in a beautiful assemblage of words I forged together with and from those who have held fast in my arena, and remind myself to fight. It reminds me of a poem I came across years ago:
I used to extinguish under the weight of living, but one day, I reached into my chest, dusted off my courage, and asked myself, 'Where's your fire?'
So here I am—another year in the journal. Dusting off my courage. And leaving yet another notch in this landmark with the learnings of the last year.
Here's to 31, and all that 30 taught me.
30 showed me that I can’t outsource my decisions to time. Or rather, I can, but choosing to wait for the other shoe to drop, or for something external to happen to finally make the courageous decision, or call something off, isn't living from a sense of self-awareness or honor. I must make decisions based on present reality—examining the consequences in the balance if I continue as it is—and I must take brave inventory of what I really want. The reasons I abandoned or neglected my intuition in exchange for delegating or prolonging my decisions in the past make sense in my own story...and also...those reasons are no longer sustainable justifications or substitutes for living honestly with myself or nobly for others.
30 showed me that I cannot be bulletproof—and finally, after many therapy sessions and a quenching breakthrough, I realized I no longer want to be. Instead, I want to be strong like water. Fluid. Open to change for the better, because I've fought like hell for better, and I don't want my pride to keep me from it. Confident. Grounded in my own substance. Knowing. Knowing where I can and cannot go, unwilling and unable to change my compounds in order to fit someone else’s preference. Guided. Led by honorable sources and people toward the truth, ever upward, and never by those who wish to mold me in an image merely convenient for them. It's this fluid strength that allows me to maintain relationships that are otherwise uninhabitable.
The reasons I abandoned or neglected my intuition in exchange for delegating or prolonging my decisions in the past make sense in my own story...and also...those reasons are not sustainable justifications or substitutes for living honestly with myself or nobly for others.
30 showed me that making a choice to present myself in a limited capacity doesn’t mean I can’t also present authentically. This one is so hard and requires clumsy practice. The truth is, some people have lost the privilege of experiencing my inner world, just like I'm sure I've lost that privilege in others' lives along the way. Sometimes, we no longer get the news first-hand and don’t get satisfying answers when asking someone about their life or choices. Sometimes, the pain that was inflicted there takes root and remains present, despite our best efforts to "forgive and forget," and that means making the excruciating choice to cut down someone's access to your heart. I can acknowledge that the receiving end of this choice hurts, and because I can acknowledge that, I can choose not to be petty or unnecessarily damaging when it's my choice to limit others.
30 showed me that prioritizing joy and play doesn't have to come at the expense of depth and meaning. In fact, they are all necessary to one another.
Making a choice to present myself in a limited capacity doesn’t mean I can’t also present authentically.
30 showed me that sometimes, making a change to your circumstances—whether it be your job, your relationships, or your appearance—is not at all about who else will see it. It’s about turning a decision that previously fed your soul into a work of transformed beauty that holds its own significance in its new meaning, and also in the way it was transformed. Just like us.
30 showed me that there’s a massive difference between making a decision out of necessity and making it out of true desire. And if you’re lucky enough to recognize the latter, you should listen, even when it feels indulgent or vulnerable to misinterpretation.
30 showed me that caretaking isn’t always selfless. More often than we'd probably like to admit, it’s actually a way we ensure that we aren’t disappointed in someone else’s choices. If we want true relationship, we can’t manufacture results from someone else's free will. At the end of the day, that isn't real and it cuts off the beauty of love and connection at the knees because we don't trust something to be good without our vision or direction. I'm learning (present tense) that my vision for love and connection is so limited, for plenty of reasons, and it's worth the risk of disappointment or pain to let go and trust. Only then will I experience the freedom that exists exclusively between people who make choices with one another in mind.
With that, 30 showed me that it’s critical to the wellness of a relationship to boldly recognize how much of the actions or beliefs present within it are really signs of someone loving us, and how much are really us loving ourselves, be it through caretaking or some other form of masking or manipulating reality.
If we want true relationship, we can’t manufacture results from someone else's free will.
30 showed me that power is different from control. Both are hard to give up. Both are necessary to give up at times, even when you think you're using them altruistically.
30 showed me that rage, while momentarily satisfying, is ultimately impotent, but anger can be fruitful. Rage doesn’t take other’s needs, wants, perception, or experiences into account. It doesn’t land well and it creates barriers. Anger is consequential and can be communicated with control. It can interact and keep doors open for true resolution, even if the two parties involved are both me. 30 also showed me that even though the nuance between these two things is not often valued, it's still worth finding the line so that if I must navigate my anger—and I must—I can do so in a way that aligns with who I choose to be.
30 showed me that the things I want the most in life are often the areas I cut corners in the way of kindness to myself. Whether it be my career, my education, my dreams, or my relationships, I demand perfection, growth, and speed in my endeavors, and offer little to no opportunity to be filled up or rest. It's quite hypocritical at times, because I have the utmost insistence that others offer themselves grace and rest. Not sure what to make of this one yet...but I have hope knowing I'm not the only one who finds themself here.
30 showed me that I have often assigned myself the role of assessing others' capacity, and managing the amount of myself I put out there in direct proportion to that assessment. It also showed me that the people who are healthy and strong enough to be considered close and valuable relationships in my life don't need me to save them from anything that may be going on with me—past, present, or future.
30 showed me that just because someone gives you more than you’ve had in the past, it doesn’t mean they’re giving you as much as you deserve. And as weighty as it is, it's empowering to finally accept that I alone am responsible for determining what that is.
30 showed me that choosing healing steps means the support you need will change over time; and while that evolution is necessary to mature and grow, sometimes, it makes for messy or complicated relationships. People grow accustomed to supporting you in a certain way, so when you make a move, you're not always in perfect step with each other.
The people who are healthy and strong enough to be considered close and valuable relationships in my life don't need me to save them from anything that may be going on with me—past, present, or future.
30 showed me that obtaining and maintaining the strength and grace I aim to hold in my character means I must find ways to reserve enough of myself for the moments in which I need reminding of who I am. Giving myself away completely—to individuals, institutions, or causes—is not noble or wise. And it may mean I have to fight for that reserve from time to time, but it's no longer negotiable. Depletion leads me to an unhealthy version of myself, and it's irresponsible for me to offer that to anyone.
30 showed me how personal, and sometimes private, the joy of creating is for me.
30 showed me that people who care to know you will read what you write, listen to your songs, ask questions about your beliefs, engage with your creativity, explore your experience even if they have no parallel experience by which to relate, and lift you up to see more of the world and be seen by it. Those who don't may say they love you, but I've found that they often love the idea of you, or what you offer to them. It may be beautiful, what you offer them, but it's not the same thing as them loving you actively, with a hungry heart that's willing to search every corner of you and show you with the moves they make that you are in their purview.
30 brought me out of fight or flight in so many ways. It was a year of practice. A year of taking measured, bold steps toward a newness I could never have imagined for myself.
There was beauty and redemption that I appreciated in private moments of gratitude. I recognized them only when I was quiet enough to inhale and choose peace with myself and where my life has found me. Only when I was soft enough and kind enough to myself to feel the love of God in its right perspective. And being kind to yourself is not an easy or sweet or clean process. It's brutal. But it's worth it to learn the art of loving yourself deeply, obediently, and humbly.
30 was a year of finding myself, not through the lens of a legal, social, or cultural identifier, but through the lens of who I choose to be, the time I've been gifted, and the people who continue to show up with more love than I can imagine. There isn't enough time to care about every uninformed or narrow opinion, and not enough energy to spend on every misunderstanding. That only keeps me in the hornet's nest I already walked out of; only keeps my chains on, from which I have already been freed.
Being kind to yourself is not an easy or sweet or clean process. It's brutal. But it's worth it to learn the art of loving yourself deeply, obediently, and humbly.
This year hasn't been graceful every step of the way by any means, and I meandered forward and backward and sideways the entire way. Even still, I feel humbled by the beautiful things that have been made of the journey and thankful for the chance to pass by this monument with more to etch into it and more to learn in the days ahead.
I hope to keep growing during year 31. I hope to keep fighting for a better version of myself. I hope to keep grounding in what is true and present. And I hope to keep leaning back into my intuition, as scary as it is, so that I can make room for the truest and fullest sense of peace, creativity, joy, and connection.
Sláinte.