It's Time

Spring is usually my time of year. I feel alive with nature’s blossoming and rebirth. I feel a stirring in my soul, an awakening, a new beginning. But this year it hasn’t happened. This year I’ve been waiting and waiting for that spring fever to hit. Waiting to feel alive again, renewed, restored to the original version of myself. 

As a child, I was wide open, like most kids. I was full of life, full of energy, and full of myself. In a good way, because little kids aren’t narcissists; they just don’t see beyond what they know to be true. And little kids know what they like and what they don’t like, and they aren’t afraid to say so. That’s what spring has always felt like to me. A system reboot. A restart. A return to factory settings. A reawakening of my inner child. 

In winter, like most of nature, I hibernate. I pull inward to rest and restore, shedding what I’ve accumulated over the year that no longer serves me. This deep reflection often leads to a need to slow almost to a stop. My chrysalis forms around me, and I do the work internally to grow and transform into the next, highest, more healed version of myself. But this winter seems not to have ended. Despite the coming of spring, I have not left my chrysalis. I am still cocooned in my gunk, growing my wings, trying to find the courage to burst free. 

Why? What has changed?

It’s taken me months to figure out. But then it dawned on me a few days ago, after my self-esteem took a blow. My thoughts about myself became clouded and dark, and my ability to continue fighting was questioned, tossed around like a wrecking ball in my mind, tearing down the safety I had been creating for myself for longer than I was aware. 

Am I strong enough for this? The things I know I need to face. The pain, shame, and hurt I’ve been carrying since I was a child, when my life derailed after a single moment, a minor mishap that broke my brain and crushed my soul. 

The truth? I don’t know if I am. I don’t know if the fear of facing it will consume me. I don’t know if I allow myself to acknowledge it and bring it to the surface, if I’ll ever be able to turn it off again. I don’t know if I can survive the reliving. And I am afraid.

But what I do know is that I have to try. I have to rip this bandage off. I have to let the wound come into the light. That’s the only way forward. The only possible way to let it fully heal. 

So this is the journey, the main focus for me right now. I have to stop running. I have to stop numbing. I have to be real about my story, what I’ve carried in silence for over three decades. Maybe, by finally being honest with myself and the world, I can not only begin to heal myself but also pave the way for others who have had to stifle their own voices, hide their own pain, and live in silence and shame, to finally feel free enough to be heard.