I am a nurse by trade, but most of my days are spent doing something much bigger.
I seek out miracles.
It sounds like a long-shot, but I am successful. Every day.
It’s 11am on a Saturday, and here’s today’s miracles…so far.
1. I woke up.
We are in the middle of a pandemic. Many people went to sleep last night praying for this miracle, and did not receive it.
2. I don’t have too much pain today.
As a person with chronic illness, even a mild reduction in pain is a blessing.
3. My children are happy (as far as I can tell) and safe.
Research statistics on addiction/bullying/foster children/suicide. Too many parents pray for this miracle which has been given to my family.
4. I am sharing company with a man who authentically shows up for me every single day.
I am only capable of receiving him because I learned how to show up for myself first. Anyone who follows along with my journey understands this miracle.
5. I have learned to allow space for opinions that differ from mine, at least for today.
To be able to craft a well-written response to a political comment, then delete it before posting because you remember that you don’t have to show up to every debate you are invited to is a miracle. At least for today…
It’s 11:45am. The sky’s the limit, my friends. What’s your miracle?
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday
I’m one of those people who goes on vacation and doesn’t unpack their suitcase until the next trip. Or, until something essential is needed from the bag. I still haven’t unpacked two of my beach bags from last summer. At this point, we are getting close enough to the next summer, so why bother? Is it laziness? Maybe. Or maybe it’s efficiency. Maybe I’m just prioritizing. Some unpacking is more important than others. Like unpacking parts of my life that don’t belong with me anymore.
Have you ever unpacked your soul? I have. I didn’t realize how much baggage a person could hold on to throughout a lifetime, until I started unpacking. Emotions, resentments, unhealed childhood wounds, negative thought patterns, toxic relationships (friends OR family who just can’t seem to lift you up)…the list goes on and on. The soul is a hell of a big suitcase.
Unpacking your soul isn’t for the weak. You are so accustomed to the weight of it all, the heaviness becomes normalized. It’s difficult to let go, even when you can clearly see that what you’re holding on to, isn’t yours to hold. Prying your fingers open after a lifetime of gripping is painful, like they are breaking, so most of us change our minds and keep holding on, because carrying the weight around is a familiar pain that we are used to. Who wants to feel like they are breaking, just to let something go? Trust me…YOU do! I’ll tell ya… once you make the break, the lightness of it all is heavenly. Heavenly.
I’ve been writing in this blog for over three years now. Processing. Growing. Healing. Taking two steps forward, one step back. Sometimes, a dozen steps back. Or sideways. I’ve been working out my “stuff” in here. Trying to figure it out. Trying to rewire. Trying to learn how to let go, let be. Sometimes, just trying without knowing what I was trying for, but doing it anyway. Sometimes, giving up. But always starting again.
I haven’t “had” to write in here too much lately. Do you know why? Because, I did it.
I figured it out.
The lightness of it all is most definitely heavenly. I’ve unpacked almost all of it. I’m not sure we are ever truly “done” with the unpacking… the healing. I don’t even think that’s the end goal, after all. I think our purpose for being here is to understand that the goal is to simply be aware enough to know what needs unpacking. Then, being brave enough to try.
I’ve unpacked a lot, and even though I’m not completely empty of it all, I’ve unpacked “enough.” Enough to allow peace into my life. To allow happiness into my life. To allow LOVE into my life. This is more than enough. My soul is smiling now. I am light.
Do you feel heavy, in places? Is your soul smiling? What do YOU need to unpack?
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. It’s funny, because I just recently realized I’ve been calling it Stream of “Social” Consciousness Saturday for years now. I suppose that’s fitting for most of what I write.
You can drive yourself nuts trying to avoid the things that trigger you; though you can drive yourself nuts trying to face them, too. Most of us just hide, or pretend it’s not happening. We are all born these little loved babies…so perfect, so pure, but we rarely are able to see it. Our pureness gets buried under all the conditioning piled on us by our parents, our siblings, our friends, our teachers…by society. We gain shame, guilt and fear from events that happen to us that are often completely out of our control. Shame is heavy, and it’s damaging as hell. Some damage is obvious, such as abuse and the like. Other types, not so noticeable. Words, or lack of them. Unworthy. Not good enough. Ignored. Compared. Different. Unwanted. Unpopular. Any of these words ring a bell? Damaged little children. All of us. And the next thing you know, we’ve got generations of damaged little children walking around in adult bodies, trying to pretend the shame doesn’t still exist inside us. Those hurt kids stick around, unknowingly guiding our decisions, because they need to heal in order to transform us into healthy adults. Till then, we bleed on people who didn’t even cut us. It’s sad, eh?
Makes me think of Tim McGraw. Tell me, how do you want to spend your next thirty years? Hiding? Facing? Pretending? Unable to breathe? Afraid? I suppose that answer might differ, depending on how old you are. Or where you are in life. Or what your conditioning was or still is. Or how many layers of shame and guilt is piled on your chest, sometimes making it feel like you can’t even breathe. Let’s say you’re fifty. Thirty years puts you at eighty, if you’re lucky. How about we skip the thirty years and just ask, how do you want to spend this year? Or this week? Or this day? Or even, this one night? Do you want to spend it hiding? Driving yourself nuts avoiding that unhealed little kid inside you? Letting his or her pain hurt you, and everyone you come in contact with? You don’t have to wait until you’re fifty or sixty or seventy, or even your deathbed, to decide to cut that kid a little slack. You may never fully heal that kid, but damn, give a kid a break every once in awhile. Let the child play. A day of play, of smiling, of feeling good. Can you imagine it? Maybe if you do, even for just one night, you might be able to start the shift. All you need to do is start it. Who cares when you finish it, or even if you do finish it? That’s what life is really about, just the journey of trying, and forgiving. It’s about random moments of joy and living, amidst the chaos. And maybe, if you take enough chances on yourself, if you give yourself enough of those moments…you just might slide on from Tim McGraw and into the great Jimmy Buffett, who says, “Some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic, but I’ve had a good life all the way.”
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday. Some free flowing organic thoughts straight from my brain to the keyboard. Hope it makes at least a little bit of sense, at least to someone!
I read a blog post last week, a little list about the roles we play in life, and it’s been stuck in my mind ever since. It’s caused me to repeatedly ask myself, “Who am I?”. It’s quite a list…some easier to digest than others. Am I brave enough to write ALL of them?
Inspired by Linda G. Hill…
I am a mother.
I am a nurse.
I am a healer.
I am a writer.
I am a woman.
I am a mother. A single mother. A mother who grew up believing she would never be blessed with children, simply because it wasn’t her lot in life…almost like she knew she didn’t deserve them. A mother who would do anything in the world to not have her children feel like she did growing up, determined for them to not ever feel a lack of love. A mother who almost messed all of it up by not figuring out where she was broken and where she needed to heal. Don’t worry, she figured it out. And they feel loved. So very loved.
I am a nurse. A nurse who has her codependency needs satisfied by having people need her. A nurse who prefers caring for the marginalized and least tempting patients. A nurse who believes everyone is worthy…everyone. A nurse who almost seems to be working out her penance in life by servicing others, as if she just might redeem herself through these acts. Maybe she will.
I am a healer, yet I am broken. I believe those who are broken never truly heal to the perfect version of what they would have been, they heal enough to become who they are now supposed to be. Like that story of the ancient Japanese custom to add gold to the glue when fixing broken dishes. Seeing the gold along the cracks celebrates the beauty of the brokenness. Perfectly flawed. Healing never ends. I am healing myself every day. Some days I can’t see it at all, like I’m sliding backwards and there’s not enough strength to get back to where I was. Then I wonder if I really ever made any progress at all. But then, I learn that sliding backwards is part of the learning process, and if I’m lucky enough, I notice this and it works. If I’m not, I keep climbing then sliding then climbing then sliding, as many times as it takes me to notice why it’s happening. Then I stop sliding. I am a healer because I share my brokenness with the world. I share my climb. I share the sliding. Every once in a while, someone connects with my struggles, and they use it as a helping hand to start their own climb. Every once in a while.
I am a writer. Fiction is impossible. Authenticity is my niche. I uncovered the story which was buried in my soul and I release it by using the written word. Sharing my story is how the climb is possible, and I will not ever stop.
I am a woman. I am a child and a crone. A daughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a cousin, a friend. A woman who carries her inner child along with the burdens which come with her. A woman who has been violated, unloved, abandoned, abused, scapegoated, outcast…shunned. A woman who can feel alone while surrounded by a hundred friends. A woman who can feel unloved while immersed in it. A woman who cries, often. A woman who craves intimacy yet never quite allows it in. A woman who still feels broken, in places. I am also a woman who has started to heal her inner child. A woman who has turned into a warrior, overcoming the shadows of her past, shedding the heavy weight of shame and insecurity, and replacing them with vulnerability and authenticity. A woman who has slowly learned that she is outcast and shunned because of the brokenness of others, not hers. A woman who has gratitude for so many authentic friends who choose her. They choose her. A woman who rejoices in her tears, as she knows emotions were meant to be felt, experienced… and then released. Not stuffed. Life is sad, and being violated, unloved, abandoned, abused, scapegoated, outcast and shunned are cry-worthy things. There is no shame in feeling sad about these things. A woman who is slowly understanding why she craves intimacy, and how no man will ever fill that void until she fills it herself. How abandonment issues run into every facet of her life, and no one can make her feel worthy, except for herself. I am a woman who has realized that love should never be painful, or have to be earned or worked for. There should not be conditions or one-sided sacrifices. I am a woman who is so very slowly learning to not take it personally when people don’t love her. Some climbs take longer than others.
I am vulnerable, authentic, full of love and light. I am a woman who is strong in the broken places. I am perfectly flawed. My cracks are filled with gold.
Linda asked us to write about our favorite word today. That’s a tough one, as there’s just SO many good ones out there. I suppose it all depends on my mood. Lately though, I’ve been enjoying the meaning of this certain word quite a bit. Vulnerability. I know, at first glance it reads like a bad word. Like describing someone who isn’t safe, or scared, maybe. It’s uncomfortable. I suppose that’s kind of true. When you are vulnerable, you are at risk. Sometimes, you get hurt. Or sad. Or scared. But those things are exactly what I like about vulnerability. I purposefully place myself in the position of being vulnerable as often as I can. It’s where I’m real. No walls up, no defensive coping mechanisms, no pretending. Just raw, honest, real…me.
When you step into the uncomfortable arena of vulnerability, it’s like being a seed which has been buried for weeks, germinating in the cold dirt, and finally the shell cracks open. It feels like total destruction, but really…that is the moment when you begin to grow. It really is quite beautiful to experience.
I’ve been published again. I’m in this month’s issue of Nursing 2018. This is my second article published in a nursing journal, but this one doesn’t seem to be getting quite the accolades from my friends as the first one. This one shines a light on uneasiness and vulnerability and shame…and that’s exactly what I love about it…
I have been neglecting my blog. Even worse, I’ve been neglecting my friend’s blogs…my community on here. I’m sorry.
There’s so many things to blame it on…I’m back in college now, at age 46. No easy task for a single mom who works full time. Not to mention I still take drum lessons, go to church and attend my weekly meditation class. I’m keeping up with book club, and socializing with my friends. My boys are growing, and we are spending time getting them new clothes, new shoes, track gear, hair cuts…we even toured a few colleges last week (yikes!)
One of our Yarmouth police officers was shot and killed in the line of duty last week. Our town is still grieving the loss. Life is fleeting and each day is a gift…please don’t ever forget that.
I started this blog amidst turmoil in my life. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me, if I was going to be able to handle things…if I was going to heal. Well, turmoil still rears it’s ugly head from time to time, but I’ve learned how to remain at peace while it surrounds me, so it doesn’t really matter anymore. And yes, I sure can handle things now. Like a boss. And of course…I did heal.
I suppose accomplishing all these things is what’s kept me from here lately…I’ve been living…really living. Experiencing each day with intent, with purpose, with gratitude. I think about everyone on here…you all know who you are. The ones who supported me, cheered me on, lifted me up when I didn’t know how to do that for myself. I didn’t seek you out…the universe brought each one of you into my life for a reason. My amazing blogger friends, so dear to me. You all take turns popping in my head at random times. My tribe. That’s how you know who your tribe is…you can go quite some time without a single word spoken, yet still be an active part of each other’s existence. I know we all have friends like this in our lives, but you guys are different…we’ve never even met. I think that’s something special…don’t you?
Well, this is NOT where I thought this Stream of Social Consciousness was going to go, but I suppose that’s the whole point of this thing. I thought I was going to simply write about why I haven’t been writing. Turned out to be a lesson in gratitude.
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness. Check it out at the link below. She rocks.
Something bigger than me happened at work the other day.
I was visiting the home of an elderly man who had fallen. I was there to monitor a healing infection and tend to his wounds. He was a frail, gentle man who told me he was ready for his life to be over. Not suicidal…the guy is in his mid 90s and not feeling well at all. It’s just time. His doting wife is quite a bit younger and not ready for him to give up just yet. This happens all the time. It’s not easy to face this season of life, even though we all know it’s coming for each and every one of us.
So, I’m at his house for the second time this week. His infection has gotten worse. I tell them he will probably need to go back to the hospital. He shakes his head. His wife tells me it will kill him to go back, that he just wants to stay home. So, I start the conversation of hospice. Never an easy conversation to have. I keep in mind my mother, who just traveled this journey with her husband, as I look into this woman’s eyes. As much as she’s not ready for him to go, she knows this is what he needs. She can see it’s time. I put my hand on her shoulder as we speak, hoping to channel some peace into her aching soul.
I assist the man to his bed. He’s sitting on the side so I can change his bandages. He asks me, “So I don’t have to go back to the hospital?” “No”, I reply. “You can stay home from here on out and we will send in a team of nurses who specialize in keeping you comfortable. They will help take care of you so your wife doesn’t have towork so hard and you can stay home“. He smiles and lets out the biggest sigh of relief. He says, “My pastor is coming today. I’m going to ask him to talk to God for me.” I’m on my knees as I speak to him, as I’m changing a bandage on his leg. It’s a draining wound, and some traveled down to his feet. I took a gauze sponge and wiped his feet clean. I look up at him and say, “I’m sure he’ll talk to God for you. But you can talk to God yourself. And I can, too. I’ll talk to God for you and ask him to ease your suffering… and hers”, as I gesture to his wife. He smiled down at me, as I tended to his wounds. “You’re an angel. I can see the wings growing out of there” and he gestures to behind my shoulder. He’s looking at it like he can actually see them there. He’s adorable. I’m such a sucker for these 90 year olds. “You’re an angel, just like she is“, and he looks over at his wife, who is leaning against the wall, looking away in her grief. She would move mountains for this man. But, mountains weren’t meant to be moved, I guess. He puts his hands on my shoulders, then cups my face in them, leans down and softly presses his forehead on mine. Almost like he was blessing me. As I washed his feet. Can you see it now? Can you see how this is something bigger than me?
I finish my work and tuck him into bed. I arranged for hospice to take over, so I knew this would probably be our last interaction. His wife walked me to the door. I tried to give her some comforting words, but I don’t think there really is such a thing, not during a time like this. She thanked me for my compassion and I went on my way. As sad as that scenario is, I felt good about it. I felt I healed them. Not physically, of course. There is no physical healing left in the world for that man. But spiritually, I think I did a decent job. I wondered why it was so easy for me to heal other people’s souls, and so difficult to heal my own. I haven’t felt like I’ve been healing at all, lately. I thought of him calling me an angel. It reminded me of my angels, the one’s I pray to, the one’s I meditate to, the one’s I think of when I’m feeling broken. One thought led to another, and I thought of all the internal struggles I’ve been enduring recently, and I realized they are easing. I’ve been putting in my work, my gardening. I’ve noticed the difficulty in healing myself and realized I had been slacking off on my work. The work I do on my own soul to put the pieces back together. So, I put some work in, and soon realized I’m bouncing back from emotional heartache a lot quicker than I used to. Pieces are starting to be put together again. So, I guess I’m still healing myself, after all…
Two houses later, I happen upon a patient with a cute little dog. He said it was a miniature toy schnauzer. This dog was SO in to me! She was standing on her hind legs, reaching up to me, begging for affection. I spent a few minutes stroking her head, her eyes steadily gazing into mine. She reminded me of this therapy dog I used to know, Frank. I had an emotionally intimate relationship with Frank. I swear, I think I can feel love from dogs easier than I can feel love from people. So, I felt an instant connection to this dog. I ask the patient what her name is, as I continue gazing into her eyes, feeling peaceful. He smiles at me and replies, “Angel”.
I’ve been living in a comfy bubble for the past 8 months. It was soft and sweet and comforted me. I crafted this bubble out of people and activities that nourish my soul. It’s worked pretty well for me. I’ve been happy. I’ve grown from a compact seed to a blooming flower in there. It’s like a perfect greenhouse…plenty of sunlight and water and full-time gardeners to tend to my flowers and pull my weeds with me. I’ve become empowered and bold inside this nifty garden bubble of mine. I healed inside this bubble.
The thing is, bubbles are fragile. Everyone knows that. As soon as it comes in contact with something sharp, it pops. So, what on Earth made me think I could get away with living in one? My cozy little bubble popped this week. Just like that. It came in contact with something very jagged that I had tried to keep way out in the periphery. You think I would’ve seen this jagged thing coming, seeing how bubbles are transparent. Was I too busy having a good time with my gardeners? I wonder if maybe I did know it was coming, but just looked the other way…wishing it away. Pretending it wouldn’t find its way in…
So, my bubble popped and the sunshine went away. Easy as that. And, the sun was replaced with a dark cloud, right over my head. A cloud that rained down on me. All of a sudden, there were weeds growing everywhere. My gardeners tried to keep up with them, but I shooed them away. I hated those weeds and knew no one really wanted to be around them. I found myself standing there alone, in a pile of weeds, in the rain…missing my garden.
So, I did what any other recently healed woman would do in this situation. I cried. A lot. And I sat under that storm cloud all week and just let it rain all over me. It got to the point where I couldn’t figure out where the rain ended and my tears started. They just blended into one giant flood of emotions… anger, sadness, worthlessness, blame, shame, insecurity…I waded around in that flood and then just floated in it, letting it soak in to my core. This wasn’t my first rodeo in this kind of emotional flood. I think back to my good friend, Mary, telling me last summer, as I was bitter about this same exact subject…”Sometimes, you’ve just got to sit in your shit”. I didn’t really understand what she meant at the time, but I figured it out. Sometimes, life just sucks. Period. You can do all the motivational, inspiring speaking you want on the subject, but it still sucks. And sometimes, you just need to honor your emotions, without blaming or judging yourself for having them. Just sit in your shit for a while. Let the rain soak you to the bone. Feel your feelings. Eventually, the sun starts shining again, even if just a peek…and you slowly start to dry off…
So now, I just have to figure out life outside the bubble…
I don’t want to brag, but I just changed the world. Not kidding. I know, I know…one person can’t change the world, right? Well, that’s sort of right. I mean, what can one girl do? The world is so big! But you know what? I might not be able to change a whole lot, but I can change some. A little. Even one single thing. Change one person’s perspective. Yep, I can do that. I know this, because I just did. And that’s how you change the world, right? One person at a time.
In a recent post of mine (Post Election Triggers), I talked about how, as a sexual abuse survivor, I was triggered by the audio tapes of our president elect, describing how he can sexually assault women because he’s famous. Most people don’t understand this. I can see that. If you haven’t been sexually assaulted, you can’t understand. Even for many women who actually have been sexually assaulted, they don’t understand, either. These women I’m referring to have fascinating, intricate brains that changed thought processes after the abuse as a coping mechanism…essentially numbing them through denial or self blame. I know this because that used to be me, until I was lucky enough to find myself on a path of healing. I performed exhausting work on rewiring my brain, and people like me are fully aware of the effects of trauma. Just because I’ve rewired some of my thought processes, doesn’t mean I’m immune to triggers.
I have to say, listening to the actual tape was not the worst part for me. Sure, hearing him talk stirred up emotions of fear, shame and anxiety. Worse, though…it was the response of much of the country that hurt. It was listening to people minimize, dismiss, laugh at, demean and criticize my feelings. It was listening to people say they didn’t care about what he said or did. It was listening to people call the accusing women “liars”. It was listening to people compare his words to “50 Shades of Gray”. It was listening to people say they were fine with what he did, because the husband of his opponent did the same thing. And it wasn’t just people…it was my friends. It was painful to listen to people that are supposed to care about me, not care about me. I listened to them say that his abuse is okay because other people have done the same thing. Crazy.
I did my best to explain that I was not criticizing people for their political choice…we all get to choose who we want. My problem was with people choosing him and not calling him out on the hurtful things he said. Whether it was about sexual assault, racism, mocking disabilities….I have a real problem with people not condemning these things…not so much politically, but on a human level. Yes, you can stick to your political party AND call these people out on their hate. You can do both.
I lost a few friends over this. They couldn’t get past the political part, and were not going to bend for anyone. They didn’t care who got hurt, as long as Clinton did not win. One girl, who had been my friend for 30 years, stuck to her political guns and stood by her comment “Adult women have a responsibility to report sexual assault at the time of the event, or they are just as guilty as the one who assaults them” (referring to women who wait years to come forward). Well, I waited 30 years to tell my story…
I let my emotions get the best of me one day, when I posted a quote on Facebook about many women watching the equivalent of their abuser being elected to the presidency, and to be kind to them…as chances are you know multiple. Obviously, the post was referring to me. The first comment was from a male friend who said “…and 4 brave men in Benghazi were unavailable for comment”. This was a perfect example of how crazy this election was. Here I am, putting it out to the world that I am hurting because of sexual abuse, and a man minimized it, because of what happened in Benghazi. Don’t get me wrong, I feel horrible about what happened in Benghazi. I hate that those men died. It was truly awful. But what the hell does that have to do with sexual assault?! It’s OK for sexual abuse to occur rampantly in this country because people have died elsewhere? I should shut up about my pain and not care about Trump assaulting women because of what happened in Benghazi? I don’t matter because of what happened in Benghazi?
I told this friend to “eff off” and deleted him…along with a few others who chimed in. One of them said “Whoa! So you think rape is worse than murder?” …like it’s even appropriate to compare the two things. Rape is OK because murder is worse?? It made no sense, and was so cold and hurtful. I really struggled the week of the election.
OK, I’m sure you’re wondering where the hell the part is about me changing the world. Fast forward to last week: the friend who made the original comment, the guy who I de-friended on Facebook…he sends me a private message, wishing me a happy birthday, sending his love…like I didn’t just tell him to “eff off” 2 weeks ago. I was perplexed. I contemplated ignoring it, but I didn’t. I told him I was surprised to see his message, that it was as if he didn’t recall our interaction. He said he wasn’t going to stop loving me because we had a fight, and he apologized for hurting me and wanted to know what it was he needed to do to make things right with me. Damn. I’ve never had that happen before. That really happened!! I cried. Finally, someone validated me. Finally, I felt worthy to one of “those people” who were making me feel like I didn’t matter. And I didn’t just think of me…I felt like it was validating all women who were feeling this way. I ended up sharing my story of sexual assault and he was so apologetic, saying he wished he had known. I told him it’s too bad that people have to either be directly affected by this or have someone they know be directly affected by this in order to be mindful of feelings. It’s too bad we have to share our story in order to get people to understand, yet at the same time, we share our stories and people still don’t care. We shouldn’t have to work so hard to get people to care.
So, this guy now has a new viewpoint on sexual assault, and more so on people’s feelings. This may sound like a post on sexual assault victims (well, OK…it sort of is), but it’s more about a solution to much of the anger in our country. We need to care about each other’s feelings, even if we don’t understand them. When someone else is hurting, I am not the one who gets to decide if they should feel hurt…they are. If I ever hurt someone’s feelings unintentionally, I will always be sorry and ask what I can do to make it better. I will not make them feel small or stupid or childish for having feelings, whether I understand them or agree with them or not. I will not tell them that I didn’t intend to hurt them, therefore they shouldn’t feel hurt. This is not what’s been happening lately, in this country of ours. People are calling other people losers, whiners, “too sensitive”, drama queens….for having feelings. They tell people to “toughen up” when they are hurt. This makes the hurt person angry, too….which leads them to want to hurt the other person, and next thing you know, we have a country full of people hurting each other. We are all different. We all react differently to situations and trauma. Instead of being a divided country that hurts each other, we need to unite and heal each other.
So, that sounds like a great plan, but is that going to happen? Probably not. The anger runs pretty deep in America. But you know what? It happened between two people. It happened to me and my friend. I can bet the next time he sees a woman talking about feeling scared regarding our president and sexual abuse, he’s going to respond differently. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to come across this scenario, as there’s so many of us out there. So many of us that are speaking up and sharing our stories. Speaking up makes a difference. Calling people out makes a difference. Not to everyone, but to some. And if I can get one person to change their views and want to help heal a person, maybe you can, too. You don’t have to be a superhero and change the whole world. Just be superhero-ish … change one person’s world.
This post is a part of Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt was “SH”. I had to use a word that had those letters in it, and let it flow…totally organic writing with no edits.
