I don’t know if you’re at all like me. If you read this fairly regularly, there must be something in yourself you see in me. Possibly. Maybe?
Which is odd. Because I’ve been hiding for years. From me. From everyone else. Because sometimes I really don’t like who I am.
There have been years when I hid in books, imagining someone else’s life in places far and away from my mundane life.
There have been years when I hid in my words, writing whatever is on my heart while not actually dealing with it. Writing the things I couldn’t say…because my words come surer on the page than in the air.
Before that, I hid in my play, in Barbies and baby dolls and beanie babies. Pretend the world isn’t as it is. Pretend I’m not me.
I hid from my sisters, my friends, my parents, and, until recently, even my husband. Because I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, or neat enough. Because whatever face I could show them would be better than me.
And now? Now the world hits me full-force because now I’m the shield for my daughter. Because I want her to deal with life and not hide. Not hide behind pretend, pretense, words, or stories.
Her story matters. Her words matter. And I want to hear those words instead of letting her bottle them up inside of her. I want to keep her unveiled because, you know what? She’s pretty awesome.
|Awesome baby girl|