I’ve never been one to have a story. For a long time I felt like a jumble of character traits, thrust into a body and sent to traverse the world. I loved to read but also to shout and jump and run. I was wildly sensitive and yet outrageously brash. I was gifted with cosmic confidence affording me phenomenal friends and easy school years, but crippling self-awareness that meant each interaction would need hours of internal examination.
And then my dad died. And I became the girl with the dead dad. The one who tried to come back to school between transatlantic funerals and couldn’t understand why the buzzing inside her head wouldn’t stop. The one who would quietly sob in class and kiss boys she didn’t like for the thrill of feeling anything. The one who still wanted to run and jump and shout and be whilst the world raged on, shifting, changing, mutating.
Four years later I was the girl with an eating disorder and two tonnes of shame. The one who coughed up blood and begged the universe for a way out. The one who drank nothing but two smoothies and half a piece of burnt toast everyday. The one who still kissed boys she didn’t like, just to feel. The one who wondered if happiness would ever sweep through the world again.
Now. It’s just me.
Writing and trying and failing and trying again. Building and growing and opening and changing. In practice. Always.
Now, I can recognise my stories for what they are and what they are not. They were a truth, my truth, at a point in time, but needed no longer.
Now, I wish to live in motion.
Moving through the lives I was sent here to live with grace and humility. Letting the light fill me up and allowing the long dark nights to move through me.
Now, I wish to live. Shamelessly, unapologetically, wholly.
And I wish the same for you.
Release your story.
Do it now.