Butterflies and Hurricanes

I’m home alone. It’s almost midnight. My wheel of emotions is spinning: fast, as always. 

The loudest feeling coursing through me is gratitude. It may sound like some new-age millennial buzzword that the wellness industry is forcing down our gullet, but it’s really not. This one is homegrown. 

Gratitude. Gratitude like dew drops. Gratitude like a forest spring. Gratitude that’s forming gentle goosebumps all over me, but this time they aren’t goosebumps. They’re tiny jasmine flowers. Their fragrance taking over me, making me take in deep mouthfuls of air.

Gratitude like I’m finally waking up to what this word truly means. 

What a life. What a life. What a life. My heart says with each beat. 

I’m alive. This time with a new renewed thirst for life. Alive not just to survive, not just to justify my existence in the world, not just to make people like me. Alive to be witnessed. To be heard, to take space and scream in my own quiet way: I deserve to be here. I deserve the life I’m creating. I deserve your attention. 

Affection? Give me some now, pack some for later. Second helpings? Yes, please. A big bear hug? I’ll take two please. 

Spending time alone forces you to strip off every single mask. You’re just there, privy to the labyrinths of your mind, just sitting with who you have become. For the first time ever, I’m not scared of the demons. My demons and I are in our silly nightsuits having a tea party together. They love me, and I them.

It’s unsettling how at peace I’m with myself. Does that make me cocky? Do I sound boastful? Too full of myself? This is what the old me would have said. 

But the new me? It says something else: I’m proud of myself. 

It feels good to say that. I did it. I made it. After all those years of depression, therapy, crying into pillows, remorse, regret and the constant, deep painful yearning, I’ve finally stepped out into a world that feels like it’s mine. Like I can own it. Like it’s here for me. 

At the same time, I’m grateful for all those years of gnawing ache and the sheer madness of feeling forsaken. That darkness was mine to keep. And I carry it with me, like Winnie the Pooh carries his pot of honey. It’s rich and pure and precious. What’s that, you’d like to try some of it? Of course, I’ll grab us a spoon. 

This weekend, I shared moments with people that brought me to tears. There were hugs, silly high-fives, breaking into song, casual ‘I’ll-put-my-hand-around-your-waist as we walk’ moments. I feel like I’m growing my friends in my own little flower bed. Look, here’s one I just planted, and there’s a new bud forming. Oh, and do you see that sunflower in full bloom? And those daisies have been around for a while. I grew them. I love them. I love them ferociously. 

The last couple of days I walked with them in the prettiest parks, next to rivers, canals, on bridges, under the canopy of the loveliest trees. We spoke of love, life and war. We spoke of the mind, the heart and the soul. I wish I could tell them what they mean to me. How they’re healing my heart. If only they knew how much I wanted this exact moment. This is what I dreamed of. 

As you read these words right now, I’d like to thank you. You’re witnessing me, my inner world, my life, my existence. You’re witnessing me turning my seat towards life, fully leaning into it, heart full, arms open. 

Let’s do this, shall we?