The Acknowledgment of Hurt

I sit in the early-morning light filtering through the bamboo blinds, warm cup of coffee in hand, admiring my 17 month-old son as he continues to explore the world around him—the dog, the cats (their tails, especially), the books on the shelves, the shoes by the door, the various gates blocking access to the various staircases, the trucks and blocks and dolls on the floor. He is completely at ease in his own body. Daring. Fearless. Independent in a way that both thrills me and breaks my heart.

He is growing up, this little man of mine. He walks, he almost-talks, he has a wonderful sense of humour. I still breastfeed him, but he loves to feed himself now, his small but capable hands shoving fistfuls of food in his mouth and chewing carefully with his gums and his eight tiny teeth. He dances. He waits for the perfect song to come on the radio and then he dances, moving his arms and legs and hips in ways that amaze me (where did he learn that?) He is entirely content and all but ignores me. This is his time, his own morning adventure, his own growth and his own learning, and I am but the witness (for which I am grateful, for this is my time, too).

But, every morning, there is a moment when that all changes. It happens when he stands too quickly, from his daddy-made fort, and whacks his head on the underside of the kitchen table. It happens when he runs too eagerly after his soccer ball and trips over his own feet, falling hard on his knees. It happens when he attempts to get off the couch, slips, and lands on his bum with a thump.

The injury is always slightly different but the reaction is always the same. There is no crying, no melt down at all. There is only the freezing, the whispered “ow,” and the eyes—those big blue eyes that grow even bigger as they wait for something, something, something. Something important. Something deeply, deeply needed.

Me.

But not much of me.

There is no need, here, for my hands or my arms or my lap. There is no need for him to be picked up, rocked, and soothed. There is no need for me to fix anything, or make anything go away. There is just the need for me to see that he has fallen (or whacked his head, or thumped his bum). There is the simple need for me to acknowledge, with my eyes and my voice, that a part of him is hurting.

That’s it. That’s all he needs. A gentle recognition of his pain, no matter how minor it may be.

It’s so simple, it’s almost nothing at all. And yet, in this moment, for him, it is everything. It is what he needs to unfreeze, to keep playing and exploring and adventuring into the world around him. It is what he needs to go on.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, in terms of my healing practice and in terms of life, in general.

I’ve been thinking about how often we encounter people who are hurting—individually and collectively—and about how quick we are to dismiss the hurt. To shove it aside. To skim over it on our way to offering advice and “solutions.” I’ve been thinking about how much better (kinder, gentler, softer) human life would be if we stopped that. If we paused a bit longer. Inhaled a bit deeper. Opened ourselves up to the broken and the tender.

If there’s one thing clinical work has taught me it’s that what people primarily want and need is not to be saved or changed or cured, but seen—seen and wholly accepted as the busted-but-still-beating hearts they are.

When we see the hurt, we honour the hurt. We honour the journey and the tumbles and the triumphs. We honour the fight and the fear and the courage. We honour the injuries and the resilience that make us all human.

We, as a society, are uncomfortable with hurt. And we are equally uncomfortable with stillness and silence. This is why when we see or hear another’s pain we rush to fill up the empty spaces with a jumble of words.

“You really need to get over it.”

“I know a great psychotherapist/counsellor/acupuncturist/healer who could help you get over it.”

“Something similar happened to me and this is what I did to get over it.”

Our intentions are good. Our heart is in the right place. We want to help. Yes, yes, yes.

But we are going about it all wrong.

We are being guided by this false notion that doing is better than being, that talking is better than listening, and that giving is better than receiving.

It is not.

We need to stop being so quick to give and learn how to receive—how to fully receive the bleeding or scabbing or scarring wounds of others, how to let them breathe a little, without choking them with good intentions.

Before we utter, “I can help you” (or any word at all), we need communicate the simple yet profoundly powerful, “I see you.” Before we rush into the brain-doing, we need to get comfortable with the heart-feeling, with the act of gently holding space for pain. This is where the healing begins.

As I sit here, observing my son, marvelling at his bravery and determination, I am reminded that we are all different, but we are all the same, too.

We are the same in the way that we toddle through life, regardless of age or experience, making a million mistakes and tripping over our own feet, again and again. We are the same in the way that we stumble and whack our heads and whack our hearts. And we are the same in the way that we freeze, when hurting, and in the way our eyes grow wide as we seek something, something, something. Something important. Something deeply, deeply needed.

Us. Each other. A shared human understanding of what it means to be hurting.

This. This is what we need—not only as toddlers, but as adult individuals, as communities, as a world—to unfreeze. To try again. To trust again. To start to heal.

This is what we need to go on.

Brave New Mama: A Project Is Born

I thought I needed to promote my business, you see. 

I opened an Instagram account to do just that. Except I didn’t really want to and I didn’t really need to. But I did it anyway because this is what I felt I should do—I should “put myself out there.” I should make more of an effort to be "successful."

And what is success exactly? According to my ego (and other, outside sources) success means busy. Success means work outside of the home. Success means money.

(A woman who stays home, to raise her children, is not successful. She may be kind, strong, creative—she may even be really, really smart—but she is not "successful." How nutty is that?)

I opened a professional Instagram account and started sharing things—my logo, words of praise received from an old student, a quote about healing—and it felt forced. 

Empty. 

Inauthentic.

I've learned, through years of practice (and prayer), that when things feel forced, empty, and inauthentic, it’s because they are. It’s because the door I am knocking at is not my door. The wave I am waiting to surf is not my wave. I am attempting to climb a mountain that is not mine to climb—at least not yet, not right now.

I felt a little lost. I reached out to a few friends and said, “Joining Instagram has caused me to have an identity crisis!”  Who the hell am I? What do I care about? What brings me joy? Where has my passion for healing gone? What am I passionate about now? 

I know, I know—it wasn’t Instagram at all. Instagram was just the catalyst. The questions had started some months ago—nine, to be exact—when my heart quadrupled in size as my arms held my miracle baby for the very first time. 

(Motherhood, man. It does weird things.)

This week, as I was taking a walk, with baby and dog, the questions came again: Who am I? What do I care about? What brings me joy? Where has my passion for healing gone and what am I passionate about now? But, this time, the answers came too (thank you, sunshine).

I am so many things, to so many people. Mother, yes. Writer, yes. Healer, yes. Wife, daughter, sister, friend, yes, yes, yes, yes. Changemaker and teacher, yes and yes. Just so, so many things. And beyond all of these superficial titles is the real thing that I am, which is exactly what you are too: love. I am love. We are love. We are love in human form. 

I care about so many things, too. But, right now, I care about being a good mother the most. I care about being present and mindful and gentle the most. I care about kissing tiny toes and playing with tiny blocks and marveling at tiny hands that reach for tiny socks. I care about being home with my boy—to see all of this, feel all of this, miss none of it.

What brings me joy? Easy: see above. 

What else brings me joy? Easy: writing. Writing brings me so much joy. Writing has always brought me joy. Writing has been the constant in my life of inconsistencies. Writing lights me up. 

Where has my passion for healing gone? IT IS STILL THERE. It is absolutely still there.

Let me be very clear: I love my work. I love Traditional Chinese Medicine and eastern nutrition and I love being a woman who helps other women. I love working with pregnant women or soon-to-be-pregnant woman or women juggling the magic and the madness of the post-partum period. I love helping a chronic insomniac get a good night’s sleep. I love helping an anxious person rediscover her breath. I love all of this. I am good at all of this. And I am grateful, every day, that I was guided this way.

But now is not the time to promote a business at which I work only one evening per week. Now is not the time to devote precious energy to growing something I don’t wish to grow at the moment. There will be time for this, yes, yes, absolutely. But that time is not now.

What am I passionate about right now, in this very unique moment that is unlike any other moment I have ever experienced or will ever experience again? Easy,  so easy: mothering and writing. THAT's what I'm most passionate about. THERE is my answer (thank you, heart).

As I walked (a little lighter) and smiled (a little wider), it hit me (kapow!) that combining these two things is what I am meant to do, right now, in my life. And then, it hit me harder (kapow! kapow!) that I have already been doing this.

(Wise words from a friend: When seeking your passion, ask not, “What should I or could I be doing?” but, instead, “What am I doing already that fills me up inside?” Oh. So. Wise.)

Since F was born, I’ve been scribbling little love notes to myself, on paper and on screen, about the adventure that is the first year of motherhood. They come to me, these words, at random times throughout the day and night, in little sparks of insight and creativity. 

They are a combination of my own experiences and the experiences of other mothers—sisters I’ve met along the way. Some of them make me laugh and some of them make me cry. All of them are tiny word-snapshots of this particular life stage—this sacred and terrifying and marvelous life stage called “motherhood.”

I’ve not been sure what to do with these little love notes. They’ve been sitting on my computer gathering virtual dust. I’ve not shared them with anyone.  

But I know, now, that these little love notes are not just disjointed little love notes at all. They share a common theme (new motherhood). They have a common purpose (lifting the spirits of new mothers in that way spirits are lifted when we realize we are not alone in the rabbit hole).

They are a book, friends.

Yes, yes, they are. They are a book—my book—in beautiful, magical progress.

(This was the biggest KAPOW! of all.)

I’ve already started writing my book. The one I’ve been dreaming of writing forever (literally, forever). 

I’ve got these little love notes, you see. 

And when I read them now, back to back, I see a book, I feel a book—a book of little love notes (call them poems) inspired by new mamahood. 

Cool, right?

I’m so happy I could cry. I have cried. And laughed. And danced. And hugged my guy. And said thank you. And said thank you some more.

There is work to be done. There is writing and editing to be done. There are love notes that need to be tossed and others that need to be sparked into being. But it all feels so good. It feels the farthest thing from forced, empty, and inauthentic. It feels easy. It feels fun. The words are flowing and I’m flowing with them. 

THIS IS MY DOOR, you guys. This one, right here. This is my right-now-door.

I knocked and it opened and I'm crossing the threshold and I'm inviting you in, too.

I’ve temporarily deleted my professional Instagram account (she will be revived, some day, when the time is right) and I’ve created an account for these love notes. That’s all this account will be—a sharing of little poems (one a day, or so), by a mama for the mamas, until I feel the book is complete. I won’t share everything, of course. Some of the loveliest pieces will be reserved for the book alone. But I will share many of them, hoping they bring comfort, laughter, a shared nod of understanding or a collective sigh of relief across the sisterhood of mamas that I feel so blessed to be a part of.

Find your love note: @bravenewmama and please share this with any poetry-loving mama you know.

(woman. on the cusp of the catapult. isn't she lovely?)

See you on the other side of this door, you guys. Thank you, as always, for the love.

***

{This is my favourite quote. It was actually part of my speech when I graduated in 2012. It has never felt more relevant than right now:

“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Instead, ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”  —Howard Thurman}

Motherhood & God

Snuggles at one-month old

{We've come a long way already, baby.}

I’ve always believed in God, though I’ve not always used the word God. (I've used words like Energy, Universal Wisdom, Goddess, Great Spirit, Life Force, Love, and others.)

But I’ve always believed in that Special-Something-That-Exists-Beyond-This-Physical-Realm because I’ve always, always felt its presence and guidance in my life. 

I remember being a very young girl, tucked in bed, talking to my Unseen-But-Profoundly-Present-Friend. The one I just knew was there, in that way children just know things. The one who answered me not in words, but in sensations—goosebumps (truth shivers) on my arms, a warmth slowly spreading from my belly to my chest, a buzzing in my ears, a tingling in my body.

My unshakeable belief in God led me, as a child, to love Church. 

I didn’t go often, but when I did, I loved it. I loved the smell of the incense and the burning of the candles and the lessons hidden in the stories and the breaking of bread and the sharing of communion. I loved confession. I loved, above all else, the story of Jesus—his birth and his life and his death, but mostly his birth. It was all so magical and beautiful and made me believe in angels and search the skies, on a regular basis, for the brightest stars. (Where might that one lead if I followed it?)

But then I learned about religion (specifically, my religion, which was Catholicism) and how it excluded some people and how it was responsible for incredible hurt and abuse and war  in the world, and the magic faded a little before it faded a lot.

I went to University and took a Religious Studies class and decided, conclusively, that religion was not for me. Even though I still loved Church, I stopped going completely. It didn’t feel right anymore. I didn’t understand all of its rules. I didn’t agree with many of them.

But I knew then, as I know now, that God did not live in Church and that, even though Church no longer felt right, God still did. 

So I found God elsewhere—usually (almost always) in Nature.

While wandering through a forest in Ontario or hiking up a mountain in Japan or descending into the Grand Canyon in Arizona or snorkeling in the waters of Mexico or watching the sunrise with humpback whales in Hawaii, I have felt my cells come alive with what I can only describe as a profound awareness of God’s presence (and presents). 

We’ve shared a lot of moments, over the years, God and me. We speak on an almost-daily basis. I often feel close to Him (or Her, or Divine Love, or whatever name feels right in that moment) after meditation, when the turbulent waters of my mind have become still again. We always hang out at Christmas. 

We’re connected, but we’re casual. I’ve not made any effort to deepen our relationship in any sort of consistent or ritualistic way and, up until now, this nonchalant approach to God has been enough for me.

But, eight months ago, I had a baby.

When my miracle baby was born and put on my chest for the very first time, the first words out of my mouth, travelling straight out of my busted-open body and heart, were “Oh my God.” 

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD. 

I must have said it at least a hundred times. 

Because to give birth to a brand new, sparkling human being—to see a perfect little person emerge out of your own body—is nothing short of a holy experience. 

It’s incredibly human, yes, but it’s also incredibly non-human. There is magic in that room. There is a hush in that room, immediately after the baby is born, that sounds like the exhalation of angels. There is God in that room.

God was in that room.

I knew it in that way mothers just know things. We were not alone. The very same Unseen-But-Profoundly-Present-Friend, who used to visit me as a child, was with us,  as our son arrived Earthside.

And He has not left us since. He has taken up permanent residence in our home. His presence is felt at all hours of the day and night. 

I feel nourished, now, in a deep, deep way I have not felt before. I feel more resilient than ever. I am alone, a lot of the time, but I rarely feel lonely. Some days, I feel like there is a glow all around me, even when it’s wet and gloomy outside. Other days, when I feel too tired to even take a step, I feel a force filling me up and pushing me forward, a sort of echo reverberating inside, telling me that “I can do this and I can do it well.”

This is not my own echo. These are not my own thoughts. My thoughts are more along the lines of, “More sleep, please.”

It’s all so very interesting. And a bit jarring. But, mostly, it’s incredibly, astoundingly comforting because, you see, there is just too much love for me to hold right now.

There is too much love for my human heart to hold. 

Even though I strive to share the love (because love isn’t meant to be kept inside, it’s meant to be sprinkled around like fairy dust), every time I look at my baby, there it is: TOO MUCH LOVE filling up the chambers of my tender heart, often tumbling like an ocean out of my eyes. It's amazing and life-affirming and excruciating and exhausting.

And so, I turn to God. I ask Him to please take some of that love and to carry it for me. 

To love my boy. To keep him well. To keep him safe. 

These are my morning prayers: Love him, keep him well, keep him safe. But there are others, too. I pray much more than I used to. I find myself having random conversations with God throughout the day, often in the shower and at the kitchen sink. I say thank you a lot (like, a lot a lot).

Thank you for this miracle on my lap, for the light in his eyes, for the life in his eyes.  Thank you for another sunrise. Thank you for another moon. Thank you for the food on this table that nourishes my family. Thank you for the incredible ride that is life on Earth.  Thank you for my husband and the dream we are building together. Thank you for my parents and their health and the love they have for their grandson. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for making me a mom. I take none of it for granted.

Having a child changes you, at the molecular level. I am a different human now. My cells have been altered. My priorities have been reordered. My worldview has shifted. Everything—absolutely everything—has shifted in ways I expected and in ways I most definitely did not expect. 

And through all of this shifting, it seems a sacred space has been carved, deep in my heart and in my life, for an intimate relationship with God.

And, maybe—just maybe—for Church too.

Because through all of this communing with God, I have started thinking about Church again.

About how much I used to love it. About how peaceful I used to feel after a particularly inspiring sermon. About the comfort of community and the power of prayer. About the magic of the Christmas story. About the little (extra)ordinary family that was Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. About sin and forgiveness. About grace.

I know, as well as anybody does, that God (still) doesn’t live in Church. And yet, and yet, and yet, I am being called to seek Church. I am having dreams about Church. I am being pulled to connect with churchgoers and to ask them, “Tell me about your Church. How did you find it? Why do you love it?” Something is stirring inside.

So, I’m opening myself up, now, to the possibility of Church in my life. To the possibility of (gah!) religion. I have no expectations. None. Just a whole lot of curiosity and an aching, open, filled-up-to-bursting heart.

Maybe I’ll find a Church that feels like home—one that is enlightened and built on pillars of love. Maybe I won't and I’ll end up in a forest of pine trees and realize (again) that Nature is the only Church that is right for me and my family.

I don’t know. 

All I know is that 1) I have learned not to ignore the heart-calling when it comes and 2) funny things happen when you become a mom. 

Letter To a Hurting World

World, I’m sorry you’re hurting.

I’m sorry your babies are dying. I’m sorry you’re being torn apart by a few haters of you and your people and the love that makes you go ‘round and ‘round.

I don’t quite know what to do.

I don’t quite know how to feel or how to act or what to say when really horrific things happen to your people—my sisters, my brothers. I freeze.

Many are saying: “I’m not scared. We’re not scared. We can’t be scared.”

But I don’t believe them, World, because I’m scared.

I’m scared for your future and I’m scared for all of our futures and, most of all, I’m scared for the future of my little boy and all of the other little boys and girls who will inherit you and all of the mess that’s been created in you, in the name of I-don’t-know-what.

I don’t want to hate, World.

I don’t want to become one of the haters, but I’m finding it really hard to put on a brave “love wins” face right now.

I’m finding it really hard to let my broken heart shine bright, even though that’s what she does best, you know—this heart of mine, she’s a firefly.

But maybe, right now, it’s OK not to shine. Maybe it’s OK to just be scared. To just be scared and angry and really, really sad. To just sit on the couch, crying, for those who got dressed up on Friday night, in Paris, and headed to a famous concert hall, only to be gunned down a few hours later.

And for those who, days earlier, were on the streets of Beirut, perhaps shopping at the market with their children, when a bomb went off, leaving nothing but corpses and terror in its wake.

Crying, too, for the fact that I didn't even hear about the tragedy in Beirut, until the tragedy in Paris happened. (What does this say about you, World? About us? About the value we place on some lives and not on others?)

All of this breaks me, World.

It makes it hard for me to breathe. It makes it hard for me to trust in the innate kindness of your people. And it makes it hard for me to believe—really believe—that love wins.

But then, World, I do what I always do when I feel lost: I close my eyes.

I place my hand on my chest.

I breathe into my belly.

And even though it’s hard at first, it gets easier. The breaths get deeper and longer and, in time, I feel myself settle. Everything slows down: breath, hearbeat, racing brain.

Just like that, I’m in my safe space again—that space, inside, where I go to find comfort when you, World, become a bit too crazy for me.

It is here, in the hush, that I reconnect to the real Knowing so often buried underneath all of the false knowing. It is here, in the hollow, that I can see the Light so often obstructed by darkness . It is here, in the clearing, that Courage lives—the kind of courage that can never, ever be crushed by fear.

This is where God lives, too.

This is where Love lives.

(And, World, just so we’re clear: In my version of life and life-after-life, God and Love are the Yin and Yang aspects of the exact same thing.)

And even though I’m a bit too scared and angry and sad right now to feel the full force of that capital-L-Love, I still know it’s there.

With my eyes closed and my breath steady, I can feel it. It’s like a soft current gathering strength underneath rough waters, quietly but consistently pulsing, gently reminding me of its presence and its power.

And when I open my eyes, twenty minutes later, I realize that I feel just a little bit stronger than I did before, a little bit braver, and like I carry just a little bit more capital-K-Knowing in my body.

World, this is what I know for sure:

I know that Muslims are not to blame for the terror running rampant in this world and I know that there is confusion about this, but I know that I will keep standing up for my Muslim friends as they would stand up for me.

I know that there are more of us who are praying for peace and working for peace and singing for peace and fighting for peace than there are who are rejoicing in these senseless acts of violence.

I know that fighting for peace is an oxymoron—that dropping bombs over entire villages only adds to the brutality and does nothing to ease it (if it did, we would have seen some sort of progress by now, 14 long years after this "war on terror" was started). I know that war is terrorism with a bigger budget.

I know that there are many who disagree with me on this, and that that is their right. I honour their voices, too. 

I know that there are more of us who are opening doors for those who are running and who need a safe place to sleep tonight than there are who are locking doors and barring windows.

I know that there are more of us who are hurting right now than there are who are celebrating—and I know that this is a very good thing.    

Because we are hurting together, World.

We are your people and we love you and we love each other and we are hurting together.

We are your people and we are kind.

We are resilient.

We are very, very brave.

And maybe, today, we are just too scared and angry and sad to feel very, very brave.

Maybe, today, we are feeling pulled towards hate (because fear does this, you know) but maybe—if we close our eyes, if we find our breath, if we listen to our wise, wise hearts—we will all feel a little bit braver tomorrow. 

Brave enough to believe—really believe—that love wins.

We are your people, World, and we are trying.

We are imperfect and we make mistakes all the time, but we are trying. And we’ll keep trying, together. We’ll keep healing, together. We’ll keep lifting each other up and teaching each other how to love again.

Our shattered hearts will keep shining, World. Don’t you worry. They will.

Our hearts will continue to light up the night.

We are your people, World.

Your army of fireflies.

I Honour the Women

(Originally published, with different edits, on elephant journal on October 26, 2015)

Photo by (the incredibly talented) Camilla Albano

I honour the women.

I honour the women who howl at the moon and the women who bow their heads in silent reverence, instead.

I honour the women who are loud with their words and the women who don’t feel they need to be loud in order to be heard—the ones who know that the wisest ones speak softly or do not speak at all.

I honour the women who call themselves fearless and the women who are full of fear but also full of courage; the ones who rise above fear; the ones who speak the truth even when their voice shakes.

I honour the women who understand that feminism is about choice—about choosing to be a mother or not to be a mother, to be a CEO or not to be a CEO, to have many lovers or one lover-for-life or no lover at all.

I honour the women who respect that there is nothing wrong with a white picket fence if that is what a woman chooses; the women who don’t consider other women to be inferior (less fun, less free, less fierce) simply because they have made different choices.

I honour the women who hold others accountable for their mistakes, but also hold themselves accountable when they are at fault; the women who understand that accountability is important, but that forgiveness (of self and of others) is infinitely more important.

I honour the women who realize that it’s not all about them; that the world is built on interconnection; that every action creates ripples in the fabric of life itself.

I honour the women who respect their perfect, precious vaginas (and treat them like the lifegivers they are) and I honour the women who don’t because they have been told, their entire lives, that being a woman means being second best and that to "play like a girl" is to play weak.

I honour the women who have explored their sexuality and accept themselves as glorious sexual beings and I honour the women who haven’t explored their sexuality because it has never been safe for them to do so.

I honour the women who value their own worth and those who aren’t sure they have any worth at all.

I honour the black women, the Muslim women, the indigenous women, the trans women, the poor women, the homeless women, the abused women, the women who have a voice but whose voice has been muffled for decades upon decades upon decades; the ones who are rarely represented in media and government; the ones who must ceaselessly fight against the marginalization imposed upon them.

I honour the women who don’t give up.

I honour the women who do give up; the ones whose spirits have been crushed; the ones who have been beaten down one time too many.

I honour the women who work tirelessly to protect Earth and her earthlings and those who don’t because they are too busy working two jobs to put enough food on the table to feed their families.

I honour the privileged women who not only acknowledge their privilege, but push back against the system that fosters it.

I honour the women who vote with their dollars; the women who know that change happens from the ground up and so who get down on their knees and dig in the mud; the ones who put their actions where their words are; the ones who understand that we are all doing the best we can with what we know and what we have and that that is enough.

I honour the women who don’t vote with their dollars because they simply can’t afford it.

I honour the women who, through their thoughts and words and deeds, revere the children (who will inherit the world) and the elders (upon whose shoulders they stand).

I honour the women who create—the ones who write and sing and dance and paint and knit and garden and mother—in brave and inspired ways.

I honour the women who recognize that it is their duty to give a fuck, that it is necessary to give a fuck, that there are too many people in this world who don’t give a fuck because they are too caught up in romanticizing the moment, the individual experience, and the ego.

I honour the women who understand that in order to create a better world—one where there is justice, equality, and freedom for all—we must exist in the present, but expand our awareness beyond the present (we must think of tomorrow); beyond the individual experience (we must consider others); beyond the ego (we must restore the heart to its rightful place as chief commander).

I honour the women who try to be perfect because they have never been taught that they are fabulous just as they are and the women who don’t try to be perfect, but aim to be purposeful.

I honour the women who build bridges between the gaps that separate women from women and women from men; the ones who know that, despite our vast differences, we belong to one another.

I honour the women who are real, who are raw, who are able to walk in the world with a heart full of scars that declares:

Here I am. I am a bit tender, a bit scared, a bit unsure. But here I am, taking another breath, greeting another morning, walking another step in the direction of wholeness, of healing, and of love.

I honour the women who love; the ones who keep on loving this broken world and its broken people because love is the force that fuels action.

I honour the women who, in time, learn to shamelessly own their stories and the women who never do because shame is so deeply embedded in their bones.

I honour the women who sacrifice, the women who give, the women who grieve.

I honour the women who stand tall and proud and those who keep crawling forward on their bruised and bloodied knees.

I honour the women.

***

(Note: In August 2014, a piece was published on elephant journal entitled, This Is For the Women Who Don't Give a Fuck. That piece—which both excited and angered me, at the exact same time—was the spark that inspired this piece and, for that, I am grateful.)