Coming home

The tears fall freely. As they slide down my cheeks they cleanse me. They thaw the wall of numbness that has been my protective companion for years now, they whisper to her, “its okay, we have got her now, she is safe. Trust us, this will help.” 

A sweet commercial, the stories of people’s lives, the triumph and tragedy of Olympic athletes I will never know personally but somehow care for deeply, an unexpected Valentine that arrived in the mail just for me, worship that I don’t have to lead. 

It doesn’t take much anymore for the floodgates to open and cleanse me.

And I let them fall. 

For I remember all the times I couldn’t or wouldn’t let myself cry. Because how do I go on to the next tragedy spewing from the firehose if you are slowed down by tears? How do you show up when you are the one who is meant to hold it all together—if your mascara has bled down your face and your eyes are puffy, they’ll find out—you are human too. 

You must push forward, go behind the walls of numbness, let your eyes go dry.

Anger and frustration becomes the first and often only response. 

Anger at the fatigue, anger at my human limitations, anger at the wrong in the world, anger at the injustice, anger at the diseases that steal lives and innocence, anger at feeling utterly helpless, anger that I cannot save anyone—let alone my own self, anger at the truth that even if I gave away my whole self—it still will not be enough to heal the hurt of this world.

So, now I let myself cry.

After years of stuffing it down, willing my eyes to remain dry, angrily pushing on to the next travesty.

 I let the awe of this world with all its pain and beauty bring tears to my eyes and gratitude into my heart.

I let the tears fall. 

And I soften.

“Oh, hello sweet girl, there you are, welcome home.” 

You see, this heart of mine was never built to be locked behind a wall of numbness, her compassion, her empathy tucked so far away. But  too much harshness, too little softness, too much meanness, too little kindness, too much pushing, too little resting wreaks havoc upon a soul.

Burnout comes, even though she is unwelcome, to tell us we need more. More connection, more delight, more sleep, more tears, more softness.

She delivered me a gift I did not want to receive and oh how glad I am that she came to me.

Because now I cry, and I can feel that deep part of me who is so fiercely sensitive come alive. 

And I remember, that my fiercely sensitive soul is my superpower.

She does not need to be hardened or fueled by anger or made to push through—she’s fueled by tears, by giggle sessions, yoga, conversations following workouts, long afternoon naps, nail art, fun pjs, bright colored workout sets, a full 9 hour nightly sleep, countless cups of tea, and the color pink. She’s fueled by the magic her four year old best friend brings to her and the way the sweet baby she holds mimics what she does or gives her a little toothy gummy grin. She is fueled by grief and letting herself feel it—because then and only then she can the magic of this holy and hard world truly be welcomed in.

I am a firm believer that what does not kill me has the great capacity to make me softer.

The tears make way for a remembrance of all the holy and the hard I have been privy too. They thaw the angry numbness so I might once again find the grace and sense the magic. And wow am I thankful. For all the love I have been humbled to witness, for all the people who let me in and changed my life for the better, for the prayers I have joined in on, the hope I have been asked to carry while others have carried hope for me, for the sheer magic that it is to be alive in this world and to know love.

The tears remind me of who I am and all who have helped shape me to be her.

I cry and thank God for that.

“Welcome home Sweet Girl, it’s been a while.”