Dear Younger Me,
I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t catch myself randomly watching some sort of flashback play through my head, thinking “oh, if only I’d done that differently.”
If only my mother and I had gotten along. If only I’d agreed to go to Prom, just once, to see what it was like. If only I hadn’t given up on my dreams because I didn’t think I’d ever measure up in the real world.
It’s easy to look back on 20 years of if-onlys and succumb to your regrets, letting them swallow you whole.
Dear Younger Me,
I grew up in a home where sex was never discussed. I really didn’t understand much about sex other than it was something that we didn’t talk about. If for some reason the subject of sex came up on a television show, someone would quickly get up and turn the channel. As a young girl growing up, pretty much the only thing I remember being discussed about sex was it was something that was not good, and something that I should not do.
“Oh boy, look what you did. You’re in trouble now!”
Words spoken to myself as a young girl penetrated – heart, mind, and soul. I don’t know exactly how old I was when this particular incident happened, barely old enough to write words. I remember the way my hand trembled though, as I penciled this hard to spell word.
Not just hard to spell. Hard to give and hard to receive.
Recently, my family and I had a week which was made up of “moments” and memories. It’s not all that often that I am able to recognize the “moments” in the moment, but during this recent week, I was able to. And I was keenly aware of what a remarkable gift that was.
My husband and I are blessed with two boys — one a teen, one a tween. Truly special family times seem to be more and more difficult to come by, the older they get.
Shame is a hot flow of lava. Sometimes it’s hard to stem the flow. How can we stop the destructive drip when it oozes from the source of the spring?
I first realized shame was liquid when I read Brene Brown’s description of it in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection. She describes it as a hot wash.
I know this wash. I’ve felt its flow through my blood veins many times.
Last Thursday, I woke up fifty years old. I’d never woken up that old before, but I knew it was coming because I’d seen all the signs: elephant wrinkles … gray hair … sagging skin. (I won’t mention the movement on the back of the arms. I’m still in denial.) But there were other tell tales symptoms. For instance,