And We Mourn Some More

Lately, I have been mourning the parts of me that carry the pain of holding onto my will for so long. I ache at the thought of surrendering + I cringe at the work that is going into relinquishing years of trauma. My muscles are bruised from the plight of being a single mother. There are parts of me that collapse under years of silence; having to stuff down fragmented sentences hoping that later they would make sense. Make no mistake, the heart listens to the suppressed emotions that eventually manifests in our bodies + the deeper burden is to be aware of it all.  With every bit of knowledge and acknowledgment there comes an inevitable lingering despair which beckons us to forgive.  

Daily I ask the Creator for understanding regarding the destructive behaviors that forced us to believe that being alone is safer. I often question why we struggle to love, recognizing being a black woman is terrifying + strange often the most magnificent thing; yet at the same time the most difficult thing to pronounce. We give our daughters the responsibility of being better + make our sons make up for what others couldn’t do. We secure the most elaborate professions only to sell ourselves short in relationships. We are full of joy, dutifully suppressing rage for so many of us being let down. For some of us, surviving our childhood was like surviving a war, we never came back the same.

As I grow in wisdom + love, I am cutting out the roots of my past while they were gorgeous trees, some of these things were ruining my foundation. The truth is we are all carrying the scars of emotionally abusive people that we still honor for fear of humiliating people we have made into Gods. Wondering why the Creator is so elusive to us because we have in adverted the roles of inconsequential people to place God under our feet while elevating our caregivers. This will be the year I crack my soul open + dig out all of the rot. Determined to find restoration in releasing the pain that made me betray myself for years underneath shadows of women who were accustomed to shrinking. Shall I scream for all the women who were told that even their mere existence was too loud? Yes, hell yes!