I Can Only Be Me

I am doing my Sunday reflection here: This quarantine has stripped away a lot of the creature comforts and cosmetics. I’ve been doing an experiment, and this is the final phase of that. I’ve been journaling, deep breathing, stretching, and laughing. I’ve been tending to the wounds that have been open. Some were so deep that it was difficult to stitch them closed. I am many things to many people, but what I have NOT been, is kind to myself. I am my own worst critic, but not my biggest cheerleader. I looked from the outside for that. I learned to sweep pain under the rug and focus on the now, then never tend to it later. Oh so many scars. I’ve internalized the cruel and ugly things my peers have said and done to me. I embittered myself from the abandonment and neglect from loved ones. In this past year of being with myself, I have unpacked so many things and they are now spread out in front of me. My strengths and weaknesses, pros and cons, hopes and fears are tallied up in little piles on the floor. I am making a way for me for the first time ever. I am helping that little girl to self-soothe and be not afraid of who God made me to be. I am the black butterfly that my mother called me and Deniece Williams sang about. And I, stripped down to my studs, am worthy of love from the inside. I don’t post these pics and write this to put anything on display other than the fact that I am no longer afraid to show the part of me that isn’t made up, kept up and slathered in potions and lotions. Just me. Raw. Dark marks and pores. Bushy brows, thin lashes, no weave, no filter, wrinkles, a big nose, cheeks and a small chin. I can only be me and you don’t have to love it, but I do. And isn’t that the point after all? ❤️

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