I am part of a community. A community of writers, and they all remind me of me. I can be myself. It’s still scary, of course. But I’ve opened up to this group of strangers more than I’ve opened up to anyone in my life, husband and counselor included.
I don’t think this is a bad thing. I actually think it’s quite healthy. I am putting in the work, grueling icky work, in hopes to find love and grace for my childhood self. I decide who deserves this knowledge and when and how I will share it. It has nothing to do with who I love and appreciate and how much I love and appreciate them.

I am respecting the boundaries of my authentic self and opening up space for my intuition to guide me to the people and places where I will share my special story.

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