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 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 am f*cking here.
Transformation isn’t pretty.
It’s not meant to be.
It’s f*cking beautiful.
Photo Flickr/ Porsche Brosseau.