Tag: reflection

stuck

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i can’t get moving today. i’m stuck in one place. literally and figuratively. i have so many things i want to do. it’s the second day of summer break but i’m frozen cross-legged in my bed, unable to move. i’m weighed down by everything. i have laundry to fold, laundry to do, things to organize and put away from the end of the school year, winter clothes to take to the attic. but i’m glued to this spot.

my inner critic says i have to compete with all that i did yesterday. i had accomplished so much yesterday morning that by noon i felt drained.

but you know what i did today? i connected. i let out my heartache. i made a plan to “cope ahead” for a hard weekend (father’s day). i cried. i felt. i rested. i slowed down. it’s not even 10 am. my day isn’t wasted. it’s not ruined. i’m not lazy. i’m human. i need to give myself grace and listen to my body.

unmasked

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when no one’s asking anything of me,
when i disrobe from my appointed roles,
this is who i think i am:

i feel things way too deeply and most of the time i can’t explain why.
so i turn it into poems. metaphors. art.
i notice everything. the way the sky looks before it rains. the way someone’s voice changes when they’re holding back tears.
i want so badly to be understood,
but the walls that surround me are ten stories high.
i’m soft and angry. sarcastic and sincere.
i want to be held and i want to be left alone.
i’m sad, i’m hurting, i’m raw, and vulnerable. i’m grieving my dad.
i’m working on showing up for myself, even if it looks like barely getting out of bed.
i’m lost and looking for a light to guide my path.
i’m finding my way.
i’m learning that i don’t have to disappear to make other people feel okay.
i hold onto dark humor, quick-witted quips, and unhinged honesty.
i find beauty in what’s cracked and half-finished and real.
i’m slowly learning how to listen to the little version of me and let her draw outside the lines without fixing it.

when no one’s watching, i’m not performing.

i’m becoming.

finding me

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i’m not who i was before.
and that’s okay.

i am learning to take off the labels and discover who i am. to indirectly quote my phenomenal therapist, i am focusing on “who i am” rather than “what i do”.

before, i ignored my needs, i pushed down my feelings. i didn’t take care of me. it was easier to focus on others than to try to work through the mess that is my own mind. i knew the coping skills. i knew that my thought processes were unhelpful, but i didn’t know anything different. i didn’t reach out on bad days because i felt like a burden. i’m a school counselor, i thought, i should know how to apply the skills i’m teaching. i should have it all together.

i still wrestle with a lot of that, but i am learning to hold space for it. it’s still easier to focus on anything but myself, but i can say that i am actively trying. therapy is no longer just 45 minutes of me placating my therapist and avoiding sharing what i really want to say. i process and i am able to take away new and effective skills from my sessions.

i’m more authentic with my students. doing this hard work to find me and focus on me has allowed me to be even more empathetic than i thought i was before.

i still isolate. i still struggle. here are still days that i can’t get out of bed, but i try to remind myself that rest is productive. i’m not perfect, but that’s not my goal. my goal is to be my true self, and i am on my way to finding me.

the second strawberry season

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i used to look forward to spring.
longer days. warmer air.

but now, each new season feels like a countdown i didn’t ask for. a reminder that time is still moving forward. without you.

your strawberry patch has exploded with new growth. some of them are already ripe, ready to be picked. this is the second strawberry season without you.

is that how i measure time now?
not in months, or birthdays, or holidays.
but in fruit.
in black raspberries.
in the peonies that bloom without permission.
in all the things you planted that still show up.
alive. repeating. indifferent.

you’re gone, and they don’t seem to care.
they come back, full of life, like nothing happened.
and I’m still here, trying to catch my breath in a world that refuses to stop growing.