Someone asked me how my year has gone. I decided to tell them the stories that shaped me. The ones that had broken my heart and unraveled my poorly-sewn-together spine.
I told them about the night that I was completely alone from everyone and everything I loved and how I begged God to come out of there with my sanity.
I told them about all the self-loathing days when I felt like a burden to the people I was supposed to be helping.
I told them about how scared I am of the one thing I've wanted my entire life.
I told them about the love I had that made me doubt my decisions.
I told them about how the fire in my heart almost died in October.
I told them about how I climbed out of my first battle with depression in November.
And then I told them about how grateful I am to have experienced it all. Because at some point I realized that allowing things to happen and not learning from them is the stupidest thing I could ever do. And so I injected meaning to every day and every tear and every ache that greeted my soul.
Because I'm not the woman I want to be yet. But this year, I got a little closer to finding her.
