self portraits [self] connection / 05.2019⠀ this year i made a promise to be more honest with myself. to respect my own boundaries. to slow down, to listen to my own needs. before i could do that, it meant i had to start uncovering the stories i'd been burying for so many years. for all of my lifetime. my lifetimes before. and the ones my genes have carried over.
the experiences we have in life are our stories. ours, and ours alone. the people, places, things are just characters, details to add depth, to unfold this reality that we each come to call our own lives. the details create a connection, a richness that we cannot singlehandedly piece together on our own.
so what is it to share a story?
to tell the words that your soul has come into existence to form. it's not always pretty, and by far it's nowhere close to being perfect. it's not a retaliation to anyone other than your resistance to owning up to your own existence, to speak out against your own silence created by the fear of being fully yourself.
but each story a human holds creates, makes, uncovers experiences that are theirs and theirs alone to own. our stories break us, shape us, remake us. our stories come to make a space within our own body, mind, and heart to create shelter for that of a wandering spirit, that is only searching for a place to call home.
our stories are ours, and the others that we meet along the path of a lifetime are just guardians to guide us back home. back to ourselves. our souls. our own spirits and the tales that it holds.
i've been writing more honestly. it's been hard.
paralyzing at times.
but mostly it's been healing.
because if i can't be myself. if i can't hold my stories, face my stories, release my stories, and find home in myself, what's the point.
here's a story.
it is mine. it is real. and it's a part of me that i for so long have been afraid to unveil. but here we are, on the first day of october, the turn of a season, the beginning of the first days of my thirty-fifth year, and the release of a reason, all the reasons to be anything, anyone else other than my beautifully, damaged, content and confident, yet perfectly imperfect self.
read my story on self reflection, body aches + armoring,
in pulp magazine on Medium.com