I’ve been pondering the words that might spill out of my brain for a week or so now. I sat in a cabana during a storm in the Bahamas last week wondering what I might say.
I’ve also ran away from the words that I might want to type.
I’ve chosen to not think of them or write them down.
Thirty-five feels like nothing and also everything at the same time.
Thirty-five feels the end of the chapter that leads into an entirely different part of the story.
(I cannot tell a lie; I didn’t know that sentence was going where it was going and then it did.)
Thirty-five feels like a year wherein I have chosen to let things fall off because I just couldn’t allow them to be a part of who I am anymore.
Thirty-five feels like a year wherein I chose to believe for myself and not let go of beliefs because of others.
And also, honestly, thirty-five feels exhausting.
I think I ran from a lot in thirty-five. And those around me, who love and care for me, let me, to a point run.
Then they cornered me in an RV or yelled things up the stairs at me until I listened.
And I knew.
I knew what I was doing.
At the end of it; a week out from thirty-six, I don’t regret those choices. I don’t regret all the times I chose to run.
I don’t regret all the times I got called out on the church livestream and chose to plug my ears or all the times I threw something at Benjamin as he poked his head in my doorway.
I don’t regret all the times where I had something to say and didn’t.
Because what’s the use of regret.
I have chosen to learn from thirty-five.
I have chosen to wear two piece bathing suits.
I have chosen to donate to political campaigns and write letters to politicians.
I have to chosen to speak, even when my voice shakes.
I have chosen to- although begrudgingly at times, realize and understand that I have Holy Spirit that resides in me. (10/10 that line made me gag).
Thirty-five has caused me to believe that I am more than I think I am.
I am worth more.
(also made me gag- it’s fine.)
Benjamin- also known as the person that I want to throw stuff at the most, has in the last week telling me that my train needs to leave the station.
That I’ve been waiting long enough.
And damn it, he’s right.
Thirty-five has reminded me that I used to not be afraid to jump.
Thirty-five has reminded me that I am not over yet.
So, that being said:
Thank you thirty-five.
Thank you for your anxiety.
Thank you for your darkness.
Thank you for reminding me that I have a heart.
Thank you for reminding me I have the ability to be angry and shake my fist.
Thank you for reminding me that I have other passions and hopes and dreams.
Thank you for showing me that hope isn’t easy.
Thank you for all the tears I cried and all the times I laid on the floor and sat in the kitchen with a shot glass.
Thank you for all the times I didn’t eat until 4pm and for all the judgemental looks I got from the living room while I scavenged for food.
Thank you for two pieces and clothes that make me feel like a bad ass bitch.
Thank you for theme parties and friends who’s carpet I’ve laid on.
Thank you for gin.
Thank you for the discovery plus app and food network.
Thank you for hype women.
Thank you for parents who have grown with me.
Thank you for friends separated by a pandemic who got closer in spite of it.
Thank you for random 2 hour conversation in the kitchen with my two guy roommates.
Thank you for people who believe in me.
Thank you for words.
Thank you for walking me through trauma I didn’t realize I had in order to walk into a human I didn’t know I could be.
Thirty-five; thank you for being another year in which I added to who I was.
Really, I mean it.