Transformation isn’t Pretty. It’s F*cking Beautiful.

I fall to the floor with shaking knees and a trembling heart. 

I've been holding on so tight; gripping so hard for so long. 

I have to fall apart. 

So I do. 

I unravel the stormy, zig-zagging seams of my heart.

“Finally,” says a sweet voice from deep within.

I’m shocked. I resist.

But, she takes my sweaty hands so softly, and I fall deeper.

She leads me to darkness.

To where foamy waves crest and fall.

To where rusted wreckage lies, scattered and nameless, piled high in my damaged and restless heart.

I have to dive deep for this moment.

It has to be dark because this is when I learn to ignite myself.

It's as sacred as it is scary.

I implode.

I explode.

I break.

I crack open, shattering into a thousand splintered pieces.

I’m at my most powerful right now.

Raw, pulsating possibility blooms in the smashed cracks of my brokenness.

I gather courage and bust open the rusted lock on my heart.

I lick the poison off the clanking chains, realizing it’s not actually poison---that it never was.

I close my eyes and my whole quaint, compacted world swirls around me.

I want to scream.

I want to sob.

So I do.

I cannot suppress myself anymore.

So I take the false poison, swallow it whole and turn it into stardust.

I turn it into fire.

I gasp, exhaling to fan the flames.

I let it consume me.

I become a spark.

I cough and choke, slowly rising to the surface, able to breathe again.

I take root in this sacred transformational shift.

I hold my hand, squeezing my soul so hard.

I’m here.

I am f*cking here.

Transformation isn’t pretty.

It’s not meant to be.

It’s f*cking beautiful.



Photo FlickrPorsche Brosseau