All our lives we just want others to make us feel whole. To save us to fill in for what we lack. When we get older we realize that we need to do that for ourselves. Grieve what you didn’t get and give that very thing to yourself.
The older I get I sink in to what’s now. Like a bird settling into a nest of hopeful. Accepting the upsets, the seemingly unfair aspects of my life. For they, too, are just as part of the story. Disowned or welcomed -all pieces visible, named. Nesting in the comfort of the familiar held together because I, like the bird, decided to take the time.
I wasn’t aware back then but I was preparing for my eggs. Prepping for my eventual birth which is now. The birth of Me. Stepping into my own power, the less traumatized version of myself. My presence secure, out of the scathing, scouring elements that shaped me. I
In a nest. A dwelling I’ve created, with the help of some really beautiful spiritual souls. Some winged no doubt. But this nest is a coveted solitary soft landing in a harsh world. A place of rest and birth.
Welcome home I whisper to the bird within. She smiles because she knows what home feels like. She knows the comfort of the familiar. She knows where she belongs. The older she gets.