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336 pages, Hardcover
First published June 4, 2019
The idea was this: I can give this away, this love, I do not have to keep it here in the dark, I can give it away and create more, even if I don't remember what it feels like to be loved. I can create it.
This was a moment my sister lived with me where we were truly happy so I tacked it on the wall above my desk to remind me that nothing is ever one thing, that although there were moments where we hated each other and couldn't stand living together, there were also times like this.
Depression is a response to past loss, and anxiety is a response to future loss.
We can only be where we are.
I'm worthy to receive.
There will always be the one who doesn't like you, the one who says, No, you should not do this, Yes, you suck. And we always always have two choices: keep going or shut down.
I have no idea who she is or was or what she's ever done or might do, but my point is, life's pretty filled up with all of us walking around telling stories about each other and to each other and about ourselves.
Instead of getting caught up in who doesn't like you, get caught up in who does. It's much more interesting.
"No one is going to give me a fucking medal," I yelled into the phone as if she were the deaf one. "I have to give myself one." There is was. My whole life I had been waiting for permission, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be acknowledged, chosen, given permission to take up space. All of my life I had been waiting for someone to tell me I was enough.
The lady who left my retreat gave me a gift. She gifted me with the revelation that you have to do all the ard work of loving yourself yourself. In that moment in the kitchen with those ladies and the wine and the chocolate ganache, I finally realized that no one was ever going to save me. No one was ever going to give me permission to be me. I had to do it.