The Journey Inward

It was her birthday, the day after Christmas. The second without her. Still so hard to wrap my head around. This was her season. We were her reason.

I still talk to her. Here and there, now and then. About the girls, about teaching, about decisions. But mostly, I talk to her about our generational hand-me-downs. I tell her how I'm working on My Story, showing myself and others grace by sharing what my childhood experiences felt like to me, how I am working through my end of being in relationship with adult children, how I continue to navigate divorce. My Story feels unnatural at times, but I am getting more comfortable at sharing it organically and not apologizing or being antagonistic or defensive about it. 

I choose to believe that as I live differently, with authenticity and self care, that I am healing both my mom and myself from these traits that were handed down to us. It is freeing to me, and at the same time, I find myself hoping that my she is experiencing the same freedom and enjoying the privilege of practice, as well.

Photo: Christmas, 1973. Photographer unknown.