Most of my life, despite having been told otherwise, stood a broken and ugly girl reflected in anything willing to look back at her. I had convinced myself that whatever demons came to me in the dark were deserved. I had lost sight of what I am now certain every woman is born into this world with
a Ferocity that knows no bounds.
Like with almost anything, beauty rests in the seeming failures of a thousand moments and the subsequent choice to climb away from those wells of darkness. Uncertain of how it all started, a voice, so quiet at first became deafening. Not enough. Never enough. I started to believe its sinewy lie.
Following a long, tragic (and all-too common) story, I fast forward in my journey to this moment—the moment when I no longer felt inaccessible because I wasn’t enough. There I stood, bare but not naked with my truest and fiercest self. A mother who had two boys, one given to me to share with his mother, and the other given through me—and whose heart grows a hundred times in one day for those she loves. Motherhood is always given to us by our children, both through birth and by choice.
There is a truth in rawness, in vulnerability. We worry that this makes us inaccessible. Another lie. The truth opens us to the miraculous way that we can love one another, in spite of all our shortcomings.
My value no longer rested in the obvious. It was no longer tainted by that—returned back to me for what it truly means to be valued and beautiful—a gift not given, but earned by the thousands of failures and choices that we make from those failures.
Being naked is different than being bare. Being bare implies that there is nothing left to hide from—that the raw and vulnerable are the true portals to empowerment.
Being bare is not baring all, but baring truth—steadfastly for eternity.
Posted on Feb 23, 2017