I still don’t know what I’d see in the mirror.  Still sit in silence waiting to hear.  It doesn’t feel right to tell myself these things (that I’m good/bad/whatever, how to move on) because I’ve always expected and anticipated that people would tell me how to feel and what to do. I’ve always complied before so it feels weird to make the choice my own. But the silence is very clear: no one else will.  There comes a point where we have to start telling ourselves what to do and take responsibility for it—for who we are.  I have to look in the mirror—and I’ve been obsessed with the concept of seeing and accepting both good and bad—and how it can drive people mad when they see the truth of who they are and how it differs from their portrayal to the world.  In the end she saw the good and bad and accepted it.  Perhaps I begin there—simply say yes and accept myself with love, trust, and open arms.  Trusting myself in ways I never thought I could, understanding that it’s ok to disappoint some people in order to make ourselves happy and that doesn’t make us bad.  To know that it’s normal to have instincts that tell us what we do and do not like and it doesn’t matter what works for someone else. To know that mistakes don’t make us bad either because we need them at times to teach us how to navigate things and to learn to stand on our own. Accepting that all of these things are simply part of life and do not make me a disappointment. 

That begins with those open arms, holding the little girl wearing the lion mask close and telling her she doesn’t have to carry the world.  She can put it down now, she is safe.  I can protect her like no one did before because they feared her light, her power, because that power was REAL. They kept her small because that girl could roar—they felt it.  They didn’t let her, they told she was wrong, weak.  And she believed them because her tiny legs couldn’t keep up.  But her heart could.  They were afraid she’d pass them by and she slowed herself down so much she stopped growing- so she put on the mask so she would stop hurting, showing them she was big enough, loud but not too much.  And they all left her behind never realizing what she did for them.  Giving them all pieces of herself, lifting them up while they ridiculed her, pointed out every flaw.  She still came back with the hope they would see her, appreciate her.  And they still walked on, even with her hand out asking them to help that last little part of her out of the ground, the part they let her bury herself in a pit so they could walk on—then they blamed her for it.  She continued to don the mask, stuck in her hole, the only thing she knew, waiting for anyone to help her.  I have to go back and thank that little girl and pull her out of the pit.  Remind her of who she is and let her be as loud as she needs to be.