Clandestine Confessions

There are many chapters in my life that have not been pretty.

The experiences I have endured did not come perfectly packaged.

And it has taken me quite some time to reach a place of acceptance with that – still a work in progress.

I have my moments, usually at night, when it all feels like too much, when the weight of my past begins to suffocate my present.

The memories come flooding in – and I am learning, ever so slowly, how to greet them with grace, hear them with compassion, see them in light, speak over them with truth, and thank them before I let them go again.

Some continue to come back – their returning presence not a reflection of poor progress but more of pain still searching for purpose that it did not find the first time around.

Redemption is always an effort I will stand behind.

And it is the cause for the writing that sparked the creation of this blog.

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I have learned you can easily convince yourself that your wound is a scar if you never take off the band-aid.

Mine was ripped off recently.

Through a dream.

And revealed to me we have some healing to do.

So I started writing my way out of the pain, as I mentioned in my last post.

Thinking it would be a few more excerpts like I have been doing.

But it quickly became much more.

Abundantly more.

I haven’t been able to stop.

Ideas and concepts entertain my mind 24/7.

Voice memos on my phone. Post it notes on my wall. Documents on my computer.

I have reached a new depth of transparency and vulnerability.

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Some say I share too much.

And with these recent pieces, I know that “critique” is only going to intensify.

It is an opinion I do not refute but would ask who determines what is “too much”?

Writing is where I go to be honest about what I feel.

Sometimes it is the only way for me to know what it is that I am feeling. I have to write in order to see what is happening internally.

I write to process much of what I am still trying to come to terms with. Make sense of moments that seemingly lacked any logic.

When my life was robbed, there was one thing left behind – my words.

I have always defended them fiercely.

The only way they could ever be lost is if I surrender them to silence. And that, I refuse to do.

No matter how much pushback gets projected on me.

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I’m not looking to uphold some image – be set as some standard of perfection.

And that will quickly become apparent in the writings I will release.

I am human.

I make mistakes.

I fall.

I let my heart lead a few too many times.

And that gets messy and chaotic and agonizing.

I cannot control your perception of me after reading these words.

And I have come to terms with that – although it still scares me.

But what terrifies me more is leaving this world with these stories trapped in me – stories that hold potential to bring healing to others.

Pain will impart in us some of the most profound truths, but pain also has a track record of producing shame. And that shame will keep us muted, small, fearful to speak the lessons we have learned.

No matter how imperfect this life has been, I recognize what a privilege it is to have been entrusted to live it and I want to do right by it.

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It is important to me my writing is filled with “me too” moments for people. For them to know they are not alone in the struggle.

But I also want to ensure my writing is filled with “that could be me” moments. For them to know they are never too far gone. To give evidence that it does get better. The pain is not forever.

Even if that means me exposing it all.

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All I ask is you approach these writings without assumptions.

I cannot rush to the final chapter just to avoid judgement.

There will be a great deal of pain to read through before reaching the last page of purpose.

And although I write my past as my present, that does not mean my current emotional state reflects where I was in those words.

Wait until the end to make any conclusions.

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Be patient as I write my way to the happily ever after.

I promise it will come…