Sunday, July 15, 2012

I feel like, every day, I get a little bit closer to not giving a shit what others think of me. It’s big, sweeping, short-lived moments of rebellious fist-waving, and then deep wells of this familiar grief, this prolonged insecurity. And the first thing I must do to heal from it is to fight for it. For my right to it. For every unhealed wound, for every metaphorical (and not) wince at the raise of a hand, for every bit of need I have for the approval of others, for acceptance, for praise, for affirmation. This need is not a weakness. It’s both a natural state of being and a battle scar. I have a right to my history. I have a right to be in-process. Still learning. Still healing.

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