This week. This is my ego. Engrossed in a temper tantrum of epic proportions.
She is not happy with me. She digs her heals in, deep. “I don’t want to. You can’t make me.”
My poor mom, she deserves massive props, how did she ever do it? This resistance. This pouting. This fear. This bad behavior. My ego is a pro at knowing just how to make you feel like utter, and complete, shit.
And yet, she and I, we both know. These tears, once brushed off as “hormones”, are the waters of change. Growth. A spread of wings, taking flight. A becoming of “more”.
I’m asking her to change. To be vulnerable, like never before. To stretch into “more”. To create “more”. To help me share all the “more” we possibly can.
Leaving behind the privacy and safety of my journal – easy flowing ink onto soft paper – for black letters against the stark white background and wide open spaces of “the public”.
This requires releasing the old. Unveiling something fresh, and becoming more real than anything I’ve ever been. This is not easy. In fact it kind of sucks, this becoming a better version of yourself. Such hard work for a fragile, sweet, well-intended ego who’d like you to think she’s got this.
This is where it gets real. Possibility morphing into probability becoming truth and eventually reality. The scared little girl who has been worried about being liked, being wrong, being different. She resists this unknown. This new skin, so tender. The light, so bright.
And so I write. With faith. With intent. With gratitude. With courage. From the heart. And slowly, but surely, that bird begins to soften, and the promise of peace slowly, gently, begins to unfold.