I’ve met myself among the moon and the stars, perhaps catapulted here by one of those stick and rubber band slingshots younger me used to make.
It’s ironic that I doubt myself so much considering how narrow my world used to be. I don’t think I think about that enough—where I come from. Or when I do, I don’t do it intentionally so darkness abounds. The same old wounds wanting to be acknowledged speak loudest, or are they all I listen for?
The things I do now, younger me would be in awe of, so what if I imagine a future me by taking cues from how past me would feel about current me?
I’m ascending, but I’m not quite sure where to. Truthfully, I don’t know that there’s a final destination outside of the final destination. I just know I want this life to be adventurous and fun.
I know I like learning and understanding why things are the way they are.
I know I’m becoming more and more aware of where things are in my body, more sensitive to even the slightest shifts. A micro moment of joy that I just realized I LOVE is when I feel something shift inside me, when it clicks and I finally understand.
I’m at the point in my healing journey where not only am I aware of my internal monologue and can interrupt it with alternative stories, but I’m sensing a path to actually change the way I think.
The “future self” therapy technique never resonated before. Superficially, I got it, but at a deeper level it didn’t click because I rarely imagined a future to begin with. I always thought I’d be dead soon, yet kept surprising myself with life.
Now that I’m actually (somewhat) excited to be alive… nah, not excited, but now that I’m leading a more joyful life (yes, that’s it) and it’s clear that I want more life, now that I’m naming and claiming, fantasizing about having, now that I’m doing and being and being present in the doing and the being, well now all these new/other things are clicking.
I’m noticing that beyond the things that are loudest is where rich opportunities for growth may lay and running from the loud things is costing me valuable resources. What’s the opportunity cost of running from myself? What’s the opportunity cost of avoiding parts of me? All of a sudden it seems expensive.
On another note, I found the perfect pair of thigh high boots this evening—the first pair I’ve ever owned (and not for lack of trying, my skinny legs never fit anything). This pair, the sales guy said, were a special order that never got picked up. And I just happened inside that store with no intention of buying anything in particular, and voila, another thing I’ve always wanted is finally mine.