For so many years I never wanted to say out loud that I was broken. I would always say that I was bruised. My bruises were deep purple and blues, but I didn't want to admit anything was broken, never wanted to mention the times I was shattered into pieces. But truth is, there were a few situations that chipped away pieces of me.
Somehow it felt better to say I was bruised because, for me, broken meant that I couldn't be fixed. I felt like, if I admitted that there were things inside me that were indeed broken, people would judge me for it. And maybe there was some shame I had attached to this idea of being broken. But then I started t reflect on the moments that shattered me into pieces and I openly and vulnerably explored those moments. Investigating whether they had something to teach me. If there was a lesson found in my brokenness, I could share it with others one day.
My wings were clipped fairly early…but somewhere within my depths, I still knew I was born to fly. But it would take some time before I mended my wings in order to take flight.
And I’m still learning how to soar and wind glide.
It was sometimes difficult to round my jagged edges and make them smooth again…and I still encounter prickly points here and there. What I now know is that there is no stigma or shame attached to my broken places. Tending to those places, applying salve, and nurturing them was a deliberate and radical act of self-love, compassion, and grace and I am so much better for it.
And when I reference my past, I reference it from a place of acceptance and knowing that my broken places no longer control me because healing is always possible when you want it. And, broken places and bruised places can sometimes be one and the same. You get to choose how your frame and reference the things that ache.
Love and light,